ThanQ
by Elim9
Summary: Q has a favor to repay, a favor that lands Picard and his crew in Middle-Earth with a guide they aren't sure they can trust. Will any of them survive Q's gratitude? Rated M to be safe. Most is teen-appropriate, but the last few chapters do get rather dark.
1. An Unexpected Party Guest

**Disclaimer: **_Star Trek _belongs to Gene Roddenberry. _The Lord of the Rings _belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am both humbled and delighted to be able to borrow their playgrounds, bringing with me a few of my own toys. Not exactly a crossover as such - only about as much as Qpid is a Robin Hood crossover - but I do make extensive use of Middle-Earth. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. So, without further adieu…

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><p><strong>Than-Q<strong>

**Chapter One  
>An Unexpected Party Guest<strong>

_"I hear they drummed you out of the Continuum."_

_ Guinan was gloating. Guinan. That's what the humans were calling her now. And Q was in no mood to enlighten them further. "I like to think of it as a significant career change."_

_ "Just one of the boys, eh?"_

_ Q met the creature's smug smile with a cold glare. "One of the boys with an IQ of two thousand and five." Even exiled and stripped of his powers, Q's knowledge and experience outweighed anyone else's aboard this ship, and he wasn't about to let them forget it._

_ "The Captain and many of the crew are not yet convinced he is truly human." The android. Data. Runner-up in the intelligence race, but still light-years behind._

_ "Really?"_

_ Pain. Sudden and sharp and unexpected. She had stabbed him! Q yelped and cradled his hand. "Seems human enough to me," Guinan concluded._

_ Q opened his mouth to warn Data of how dangerous "Guinan" was, but a voice from behind interrupted his thoughts. "Hey! Leave him alone! What'd he do to you?"_

_ Q turned, startled. He hadn't expected anyone to defend him, least of all a stranger. The voice belonged to a teenage girl, sandy-haired and red-faced with anger, her bright grey eyes fixed on the being before her in the guise of a bartender._

_ Guinan's gloating expression grew grave. "Brooke, you don't understand who this is." She turned a stone-cold gaze at Q. "This is Brooke Warrington. Her mother was killed during our encounter with the Borg."_

_ It didn't take the teenager long to piece together the only reason Guinan would think that would be significant to the stranger. "You're Q."_

_ Before Q could do more than nod his confirmation, they were all distracted by what appeared to be a white, glowing cloud. The Calamarain. Q jumped up, forgetting for a moment that he had no powers, no means to fend off their attack. Instead, he was helpless as they began to engulf him in their white cloud._

_ Pain. The stinging sensation in his hand faded to nothing as the Calamarain surrounded him with pain. Perhaps this was what fire felt like. Q could hear his own voice crying out for help as he flailed wildly against his attackers._

_ Suddenly, a hand closed around his wrist, steadying him. The pain diminished, if only slightly. The Calamarain's attention was divided. Q grasped his would-be rescuer's wrist tightly, clinging to that one bit of relief from the pain. A moment later, without warning, the Calamarain vanished, and both of them crumpled to the floor in a heap._

_ Data and Guinan rushed immediately to Q's side, but he wasn't the subject of their concern. Beside him, motionless, her cold hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist as his was around hers, lay Brooke._

* * *

><p>Perched high on the thin branch of a tree, Q smiled. The limb was steady beneath him; the laws of gravity meant nothing to the entity. Nor did the lower branches obstruct his view of what was happening below. He could see everything.<p>

Not that 'everything' was particularly interesting at the moment. Two teenagers - a boy and a girl - were battling large, ugly creatures with white hands painted on their faces. They were fighting with swords, of all things, and some of the creatures had bows. Rather boring. Eventually, the creatures would win. In fact, he would have left a long time ago, or never come, if not for one small detail.

The boy was Wesley Crusher, barefoot and dressed in simple clothes, his sword glowing a pale blue. A ring on a chain about his neck left no question as to who he was supposed to be. He was actually doing fairly well, but he was tiring, his breathing growing harder and more uneven.

The girl was trying, with some measure of success, to draw the Uruk-Hai away from him. Every once in a while between blows, she would raise her horn to her lips and give a long blast. This annoyed Wesley as much as it amused Q. The girl's sandy hair was damp with sweat, but a light was in her grey eyes and a smile on her face.

Q laughed to himself as she called to Wesley to ask if he needed help. Wesley stubbornly called back no, just as anyone else would have. The girl shrugged and gave her horn another blast. Wesley scowled.

The only reason Wesley was here, Q knew, was to keep an eye on the girl. No doubt Brooke knew that, too, and was just as amused. Captain Picard was curious, for the same reason Q was.

The shock of the Calamarain's attack had sent Brooke into a coma - a coma that Q had made sure to bring her out of once his powers were restored. She had helped him. Distracted the Calamarain, if only for a moment. That one act, that one attempt to help, had earned her Q's respect, as well as the suspicion of the crew of the _Enterprise_, including her father, who now rarely spoke to her. And now Captain Picard had instructed Wesley to keep a close eye on her. All because of one impulsive move.

Still, impulses seemed to serve Brooke well, Q noted as he watched the two of them. Wesley was more thoughtful, more analytical, and that sometimes made him hesitate. Brooke's decisiveness was a useful quality in a battle like this one.

Suddenly, another Uruk-Hai appeared, a rather large, ugly one with a bow. Brooke noticed, and easily sidestepped to place another Uruk between herself and the newcomer. Wesley's attention was elsewhere, and an arrow flew straight for him. Brooke sprang over immediately and threw him to the ground, but didn't have time to dodge the arrow herself as they tumbled. They rolled over each other for a moment before Wesley yelled what Brooke hadn't thought to. "Computer, freeze program!"

The computer immediately obeyed, and a mocking smile broke out on Brooke's face. "My hero."

Wesley wasn't in the mood. "I just saved your life."

"No, you just refused to let the game play out as soon as it didn't go exactly the way you wanted." Brooke winced as she plucked the arrow from her shoulder; they had been carefully programmed to only scratch the surface, but it had caught in her armor. "Where's the fun in a game you can end as soon as the tide starts to turn against you?"

"You'd rather play it out and die?" Wesley demanded, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Brooke shook her head. "No, Frodo, because I thought of what you didn't." She held up the Ring on its chain. "I took it from you when we fell," she explained to a bewildered Wesley. "If you'd have given me a few more seconds before calling time-out, Boromir would have been out of here."

"And you'd have left me here to die."

"Maybe," Brooke shrugged, "and maybe I'd have brought the rest of the Fellowship back with me to save your life. The point is, we'll never know, because you called foul, Frodo."

"Stop calling me that!" Wesley insisted. "The game's over!"

"Oh, no," Q laughed, appearing in front of the pair. "It's only just beginning." There was a bright flash of light, and then darkness.

* * *

><p><em>Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship <em>Enterprise_, its continuing mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no one has gone before…_

* * *

><p>Brooke blinked. The fog was beginning to lift. No matter right now where it had come from; it was lifting. She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. There were figures around her, so many shapes.<p>

At last, she could make out some of them, and immediately hoped she was dreaming. Captain Picard. Commander Riker. Commander Data. Lieutenant LaForge. Lieutenant Worf. Counselor Troi. Dr. Crusher. Wesley. They were all there, all confused and upset, and all dressed very strangely.

Then she looked around, and her eyes came to rest on a figure she recognized immediately. It couldn't be. But it had to be. And if he was there, then she knew exactly where they were. All of Rivendell was staring at them, watching. Someone had to do something.

Brooke's hand flew to her belt, and yes! It was there. Exactly what she needed. As if in a dream, she brought the horn to her lips and gave a long blast. Strong and clear, it echoed through the clearing, and the words she needed came to her without thought. "Loud and clear it sounds in the valleys of the hills," she smiled. "And then let the foes of Gondor flee."

That registered with Commander Riker, on the other side of the group. "Gondor? You mean—"

"Shhh," Brooke cut him off.

Elrond was already speaking. "Slow should you be to wind that horn again, Boromir, until you stand once more on the borders of your land, and dire need is on you."

Brooke couldn't take her eyes off the Elf-lord. "Perhaps," she nodded, meeting his gaze. "But I have always let my horn cry at setting forth, and though hereafter we may walk in shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night."

Elrond seemed to accept that reply, and released Brooke from his gaze. Brooke at last relaxed a little, enough to look around at the crew of the Enterprise. Worf and Wesley were fuming, and Captain Picard was quickly losing patience, but the others looked more confused than angry.

"What is all this, Brooke?" Dr. Crusher asked in a whisper. "Do you know what's going on?"

Captain Picard took the hint. "Where are we? And … _who _are we?"

Brooke nodded. A fair question. They were all strangely clad and carried quite an assortment of weapons. But they couldn't talk here. "I'll explain, really," she whispered. "Just let me get us out of Rivendell first."

"Where?"

"Shhh. Just follow my lead."

Captain Picard clearly did not like being shushed, but he had no other choice.

"On you who go with him," Elrond was saying, either oblivious to the discussion or choosing to ignore it, "no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road."

Brooke looked over at Worf, but he looked more likely to try to strangle the Elf-lord than to say his line. "Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," Brooke called out, and, to her relief, Elrond didn't appear surprised by where the comment had come from.

"Maybe," he said sternly. "But let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall."

Brooke blinked. For a moment, it had felt as if those words were meant not for Gimli, for whom they were intended, nor for Boromir, whom she represented, but for Brooke Warrington of the starship _Enterprise_. Only when Wesley, not very discreetly, jabbed her sharply in the side with his elbow did she remember that she was supposed to say something. "Yet sworn word may strengthen quaking heart."

"Or break it," the Elf-lord countered. "Look not too far ahead! But go now with good hearts, and may the blessings of Elves and Men and all free folk go with you. May the stars shine upon your faces."

"Go," Brooke whispered to Captain Picard, motioning towards the path that led away from Rivendell. "That way. Go. Lead us out."

Picard still looked thoroughly confused, but turned to go, with Wesley close behind him. Doctor Crusher followed, then Data and Geordi. Worf followed a little ways behind, and at the back came Troi and Riker with Brooke.

Suddenly, she realized that they'd stopped, and saw that the path had forked. "Left," she whispered to the front. "Go left."

Picard did as he was told, and they were soon out. As soon as Picard guessed they were safely out of earshot, he stopped. "What was that?"

Brooke at last got a good look at her companions, and could barely contain a laugh. Captain Picard was dressed in a long grey robe. A tall hat was on his head, and a staff was in his hand. Glamdring hung in a sheath at his side.

Riker looked slightly more normal. His hair was longer and his clothes old and weather-stained. Anduril hung at his side, and Brooke was surprised to see the Ring of Barahir on his hand. Details. Q was certainly paying terribly close attention to details.

Wesley, Dr. Crusher, Geordi, and Data had all been given curlier hair and pointed ears. Brooke held back another laugh; they even had hairy feet! Wesley was fingering a ring that hung around his neck, and his mother carried an assortment of pots and pans in her pack, making a rattling noise when she walked. All four carried short swords, but only Wesley looked angry enough to use one.

Worf, as well, seemed to be deciding which of his axes would do the most good. He was covered in armor, and a helmet was on his head.

Troi, on the other hand, was now armed with a bow and a quiver of arrows, though the thought of her actually using them made Brooke smile. Her hair was much straighter than normal and ran long down her back. She, too, had pointed ears.

Brooke's costume hadn't changed much from her holodeck program. She had armor, a sword, a shield, boots, thick leather gloves, and, of course, the Horn of Gondor.

And now, she also had everyone's attention.

"We're in Middle-Earth," she said, trying to keep it simple. "We were brought here by Q; I'm not sure why."

"Q," Picard grumbled. "I should've guessed."

Brooke shrugged. "Yeah, but no harm done, except a couple strange looks from the Elves back there when I was the only one to do any talking."

Troi was still confused. "Wait. Middle-Earth? Where's that?"

"Where's Middle-Earth?" came a voice, and Q appeared in front of them. "Why, my dear, ignorant Elf, Middle-Earth is what's all around you."

"I believe I can provide a clearer definition," Data piped up. "He is referring to the literary world created by a human by the name of J.R.R. Tolkien in Earth's twentieth century, which is the setting for, among other books, _The Lord of the Rings_."

"My dear Pippin," Q sighed. "We simply can't have that kind of nonsense running loose outside of Rivendell." He snapped his fingers in front of Data's face.

"Data, are you all right?" Picard asked.

"Yes, but … I believe he has erased all my memory of this world and the books surrounding it."

Picard turned on Q. "Why?"

"Because you don't need it," Q shrugged. "You have another expert among you, Gandalf, and I'm not referring to Aragorn, who read the books as a child, nor to Frodo, who only just finished _The Hobbit_."

"You mean Brooke," Riker reasoned.

"Well done, Aragorn," Q grinned. "As a few of you may have guessed, you are the Fellowship of the Ring. Your task is to destroy the Ring of Power that Frodo-" he pointed to Wesley, "—carries." He turned to Brooke with a smile. "Have fun."

The Fellowship stared as Q disappeared. At last, Worf gave a growl. "Well, what are we waiting for?"


	2. The Shadow of the Future

**Disclaimer: **I am not Gene Roddenberry. I am not J.R.R. Tolkien. I do not own this stuff.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<br>****The Shadow of the Future**

Brooke watched in mild amusement as the others took Wesley's ring and used their various weapons to try to destroy it. But they met with no success. Even Data found he couldn't even dent the Ring, much less break it.

After a few moments, Riker joined Brooke outside the little circle. "This isn't going to work at all, is it?"

Brooke shook her head, her arms crossed. "Nope."

Picard heard her and turned, motioning to Data to give the Ring back to Wesley. "So how _do_ we destroy it?"

"First, I would suggest that Pippin give the Ring back to Frodo – _now_."

Picard turned to see that Data was still holding the Ring on its chain. Wesley was holding out his hand for it, but Data seemed in a trance.

"So It's real," Brooke said quietly, trying to decide if what she felt was satisfaction or dread.

"What's real?" Picard demanded.

"All of this. But, most importantly, the Ring, and the draw it has on people."

"Data!" Picard snapped. "Give the ring back to Wesley."

Data seemed to snap out of his trance and immediately obeyed. "I … I do not understand what happened, Captain."

"It's all right, Mr. Data. Brooke assures me this is normal."

"Quite," Brooke agreed. "Now, about the Ring—"

Picard cut her off. "Before you tell us anything about this place, Brooke, I expect an explanation. Why did Q bring us here?"

Brooke sighed and sat down on a nearby rock. The others remained stubbornly standing. "Look, I don't know why Q did this," Brooke insisted.

"Speculate," Picard suggested. "Take a guess."

Brooke sighed. "He probably thinks he's doing me a favor. He's hoping that you'll be forced into trusting me – Middle-Earth is something of a … hobby of mine."

"Obsession is more like it," Wesley mumbled.

"Passion," Brooke corrected. Then she turned to Picard. "I don't expect you to trust me because of this. If anything, you'll probably trust me less. But whether you trust me or not, you _do_ need me."

Picard shook his head and turned to Riker. "Q mentioned that you knew about this place."

"Bits and pieces, Sir. I read the books as a teenager. Brooke can be of much more help."

Reluctantly, Picard turned to Brooke. "Then tell us what we're dealing with, besides Q."

"Sauron, for starters. Some three millennia ago, the Rings of power were forged. Nine for the Men. Seven for the Dwarves. Three for the Elves. Then Sauron made the One Ring – what Frodo has over there—" She gestured to Wesley. "—to control all the others. War broke out – the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. Sauron was defeated when Isildur cut the Ring from his hand.

"Isildur took the Ring, but instead of destroying It when he had the chance, he kept It. You see, the Ring has power, a will of Its own. It's a part of Sauron, and It has been trying to return to Its master ever since. So Isildur kept It. But Orcs attacked Isildur, and the Ring was lost in the Anduin River."

"Orcs?" Picard asked.

"Sauron's slaves. We'll probably run into some eventually, no matter how careful we are. Anyway, the Ring was lost in the Anduin until It was found by a Hobbit-like creature named Deagol, twenty-five hundred years later. Deagol's friend, Smeagol, murdered Deagol and took the Ring for his own, only to discover that the Ring had the power to make him invisible. Rejected by his own people, Smeagol fled to the Misty Mountains, where Bilbo found him five hundred years later." She turned to Riker. "Ringing any bells, Aragorn?"

"Starting to," Riker admitted.

Picard glared. "Brooke, you will not address my officers in such a manner."

"Or you'll do what? Throw me in the brig? Whether either of us likes it or not, you _need_ me, Gandalf."

"Wait," Wesley interrupted before the situation could escalate. "So this is the Ring that Bilbo found? With that strange hissing creature?"

"Gollum," Brooke agreed with a smile. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to spoil the first book for you, Frodo."

"By all means," Picard nodded. "This is more important."

"At least we agree on something. Suffices to say, a Hobbit named Bilbo found the Ring in Gollum's cave."

"Gollum? What happened to Smeagol?" Troi asked.

"Smeagol and Gollum are two sides of the same person," Brooke explained. "Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Believe me, you'd love to talk to him for a few hours. Anyway, after the Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo took the Ring back to the Shire. That's where the Hobbits live," she added before anyone could ask.

"Hobbits?" Dr. Crusher asked.

"You, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin," Brooke nodded, gesturing to Geordi, and Data, "are Hobbits. You're supposed to be shorter, but I suppose Q didn't want to make you too upset. In any case, after about sixty years, Bilbo left the Shire, leaving the Ring to Frodo."

"And that's who I am," Wesley verified.

"Yes. Along with Samwise Gamgee—" she pointed to Dr. Crusher, "—you set out for Bree, where Gandalf said he'd meet you. You two were soon joined by Merry and Pippin." She nodded at Geordi and Data. "But when you got to Bree, Gandalf wasn't there, because Gandalf," she smiled at Picard, "had been taken prisoner by Saruman the White – now known as Saruman of Many Colors. He's another wizard, and was secretly – and now not so secretly – in league with Sauron."

"Does it have to be this complicated?" Wesley grumbled.

"Brooke raised an eyebrow. "What?" she asked with a playful smirk. "This is the simple version. I could have told you all about Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, and the Old Forest. Or I could have told you about the barrow-wights and how you all got your Elvish swords. Or I could have—"

Picard raised his hand. "So Gandalf never came. Then what?"

"That's where I come in," Riker spoke up. "Or, I should say, my character, Aragorn. He takes them to Rivendell, if I remember."

Brooke nodded. "Perfectly. That's where they meet up again with Gandalf and Bilbo. A big council is held, and Frodo volunteers to take the Ring to Mount Doom, the only place where It can be destroyed."

"Why?" Data asked.

"That's where It was forged," Brooke explained. "So Frodo, his Hobbit friends, Gandalf, and Aragorn set out from Rivendell with Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir." She pointed in turn to Troi, Worf, and herself.

"And that's where we are now?" Riker asked.

Brooke nodded. "That's where we are now."

"So how do we get to this Mount Doom?" Picard asked grudgingly. "Is it nearby?"

Brooke shook her head. "It's in Mordor, far away, to the southeast. First, we have to get past the mountains to the east of us. Now, we have three choices. The first is to go south and through—"

"Wait," Riker interrupted. "Brooke, draw a map."

"Good idea," the teen agreed. She headed over to a grassless patch of earth, and the rest of them followed. Kneeling down, Brooke drew a mountain range. She pointed to the west of the northern mountains. "We're here. Our first choice is to go south—" she ran her finger along the mountains, "—until we reach the Gap of Rohan. Unfortunately, that's dangerously close to Isengard." She drew a little tower. "Saruman is there, and he wants the Ring."

"Such a fuss over a little ring," Worf grumbled.

Brooke laughed. "True. But if we destroy the Ring, we destroy Sauron. So it's a big deal."

"Then won't he be expecting us to destroy it?" Troi reasoned. "Won't he be prepared for us?"

"No. He expects us to try to use the Ring against him, which wouldn't be such a bad idea if the Ring weren't pure evil. But It is, so we're destroying It."

"So if we go south…" Picard prompted, bringing the discussion back on track.

"Saruman's Uruk-Hai will find us."

"Uruk-Hai? What are they?" Geordi asked.

"Not nice," Wesley volunteered. "They're big and ugly and have white hands on their faces."

"Saruman's symbol," Brooke clarified. "We shouldn't go that way."

"Then why tell us about it?" Worf demanded.

Brooke kept her calm, though the Klingon was fingering his axe. "You deserve to know all the options. And if, in the end, you decide to go there, that's where I'll take you. I'm just saying that I wouldn't suggest it."

"And the other two options?" Picard asked.

"One is the Pass of Caradhras. It goes over these mountains up here." She pointed a little south of where they were. "Snow, ice, little shelter, and deadly cold. Seeing as Q didn't even give us Bill—"

"The pony?" Riker asked. "You're right; he didn't."

"So I'm not sure how much fuel we have. We've all got packs, but I don't know…" She trailed off. The rest of them took out their packs. Between them, they had five loaves of bread, some dried fruit and meat, and a jug of water each, plus Dr. Cursher's pots and pans.

"Why do I even _have_ these?" Dr. Crusher complained. But, for the first time, Brooke wasn't ready with an answer. She didn't even seem to have heard the question. "Brooke?" Dr. Crusher asked, startled. "Brooke?"

Brooke nearly jumped. "I'm sorry."

"The third choice," Riker nodded. "That's what's bothering you. Moria."

Brooke nodded, then turned to Picard. "The Mines of Moria are an old Dwarven city beneath the mountains – they go all the way to the other side. It's the road the Fellowship takes in the book, after trying the Pass of Caradhras. They were met by Orcs, but, more importantly, a Balrog. Gandalf held it off on the Bridge of Khazad-dum, but both fell into the abyss below. Gandalf later returned more powerful as Gandalf the White, but I don't think we can count on Q being so generous."

"If I remember correctly, though," Riker put in, "the Fellowship nearly got through Moria without meeting Orcs or the Balrog. And it was a mistake by Pippin that started it all off."

Brooke nodded. "True. But a blunder by any other member could have proven just as deadly. Gandalf, if we go through Moria, we can't have _any_ mistakes. If the Balrog finds us, we won't make it out alive."

Picard considered this for a moment. "So we have three choices, none of them good. What is the least of the three evils? Opinions?"

"Say we go around the mountains, and this Saruman does find us," Geordi ventured. "What then?"

Brooke shook her head. "Our task is to destroy the Ring. I don't think Q is going to return us to the _Enterprise_ unless we do just that. If Saruman finds the Ring, we will remain here forever, and perish along with the rest of Middle-Earth when Sauron regains his former strength."

"I think that effectively rules out the Gap of Rohan," Riker nodded.

"Not necessarily," Data pointed out. "Perhaps we could evade these creatures by stealth."

"No," Brooke shook her head. "Saruman uses birds as his spies. He'll have plenty of time to see us coming, no matter how well we try to hide. One person alone might manage it. Not nine."

"We shouldn't go through Moria if it can be avoided," Riker reasoned. "I wouldn't want to risk all our lives on the chance that we won't make any noise at all."

"The mountains?" Picard asked.

"We are not prepared for such a journey," Data advised. "We have no fuel for a fire and little food."

"Fuel we can gather along the way," Brooke put in. "But it does us no good without a way to light it."

"Did they have one in the book?" Riker asked

"Yes, because of one of Gandalf's spells," Brooke pointed out. "I wonder if our Gandalf is capable of that."

Riker actually smiled at that. Then he turned to Picard. "It's as you said, Sir. The least of the three evils."

Picard turned to Brooke. "Suggestions?"

Brooke was silent for a moment, studying the map. But she already knew what her advice had to be. "The Gap of Rohan shouldn't even be considered an option. Saruman will find us, and he will take the Ring, and we'll all be trapped here. Much as I like Middle-Earth, once the Enemy has the Ring, things will get ugly fast.

"As for the mountains, it's useless to try. We don't have enough food. We won't have any shelter. If we go and have to turn back, we'll use up what little supplies we have. That is, if we're given the chance to turn back. More likely, we'll be trapped up there and freeze to death … well, except Pippin, I suppose."

Data ignored the remark. "Then you are suggesting that we go through the Mines of Moria."

Brooke looked up. She'd been beating around the bush, but, eventually, she would have to say it. "Yes. And at least if death finds us, it will find us quickly."

Riker shook his head. "I still think we should try the Mountain pass, Sir. We may make it over; we're a bit tougher than Hobbits. We're not prepared, true, but we can improvise. I believe it can be done, Sir."

Picard nodded. "Dismissed." Everyone looked at him, confused. "Well, don't just stand there. Split up, find more food if you can, and meet back here in ten minutes."

"If you see any birds, stay out of sight," Brooke added, and hurried off. After a glance back at the Captain, Riker followed.

"It's bothering you," Riker said once he caught up.

"What gave it away?" Brooke asked sarcastically. "I just recommended a path that could lead to all of our deaths."

"Any of them could," Riker pointed out. "You did what you thought was best."

"So did you. Like Aragorn, you recommended the Pass of Caradhras."

"I didn't do it to stay true to character, Brooke. This isn't a game. I did it because it seems like the best choice."

"It would be, if it could work."

"I think we can make it work, Brooke."

Brooke stared out at the mountains. "I have a feeling we'll get the chance to see if you're right."

* * *

><p>Sure enough, once they had all gathered again, Picard announced, "We will take the pass over the mountains."<p>

Brooke nodded her acceptance. "All right, then. A few suggestions, if I may."

"By all means."

"We should leave anything we won't need. Sam, that means your pans. We should also gather some firewood; as unlikely as it seems, we may find a way to light it."

"We have time," Riker pointed out. "It's nearly nighttime."

Brooke shook her head. "Nice try. We travel at night. Harder to be spotted by the enemy. And there's something else. I took a look around, and it seems Q decided to do us a favor. The Pass or Caradhras should be a forty-day journey south of here. Instead, it's about a mile to the southeast. If we leave now, we'll reach it before nightfall."


	3. The First Debate

**Disclaimer: **Some of it is Gene Roddenberry's. This is what I call "not mine." The rest is J.R.R. Tolkien's. This is what I call "also not mine."

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<br>****The First Debate**

"You're insane!" Brooke fumed. "You're _all_ insane! You can't just stay here for the night! We're completely out in the open! We'll be lucky if we're still _here_ by morning!"

Picard was on his last nerve. "If the mountain pass is as perilous as you claim, we'll need to rest before we start. Now, I already suggested that we return to Rivendell for the night—"

"And _I _already told _you_ that that's impossible! There's no way even _I_ could explain that one to Lord Elrond. The Fellowship returns to Rivendell after only a few hours? What a joke!"

"Then _here_ is our only choice. Commander Data can stay on watch all night and warn us of anything unusual."

"And by the time he does, it will be too late! They'll have seen us already!"

"Brooke, we simply can't have you throwing a fit like this every time I don't follow your advice."

Brooke turned a deep shade of red. "It's not advice, Gandalf! It's common sense. If it were Aragorn giving it instead of me, you wouldn't have to think twice about following it!"

Riker crossed his arms. "Brooke, the Captain has considered everyone's advice in this, especially yours, because you know what you're doing more than any of us. But what would you have us do? Strike out for Caradhras without a rest?"

"Yes! At least then the snow would hide us. I feel too uneasy out here; we're being watched."

"That is true," Data pointed out. "Q is undoubtedly still observing us, but that fact will not change, regardless of where we go."

Brooke threw her hands up. "You just don't get it, do you? It's not Q that I'm worried about! It's Saruman!"

"Q is the greater danger," Riker pointed out. "As powerful as Saruman is in this world, Q controls all of this."

"But there's nothing we can _do_ about that," Brooke protested. "We _can_ do something about Saruman, if we only stay out of sight!"

"There's nowhere out here that's safer," Riker insisted.

Brooke turned and stormed off in the other direction. Riker started to go after her, but Troi shook her head. "I'll handle this." She hurried off after Brooke.

"You're nowhere near as quiet as an Elf," Brooke remarked, without turning, as Troi approached.

"Brooke, you're upset," Troi said gently.

"Yeah, it definitely took a counselor to figure that one out," Brooke observed with a note of bitterness in her voice.

"I realize it must be frustrating, the Captain not taking your advice."

"You think I feel rejected," Brooke scoffed, still not turning.

"I do. Rejected. Excluded, perhaps. But, above all, misjudged."

Finally, Brooke turned. "That's just it. Everyone thinks I'm upset because no one's listening to me. But that's only part of it. The bigger part is the _reason_ they're not listening to me."

"They don't trust you? Is that what you mean?"

Brooke nodded slowly. "And I understand that. I've gotten used to it, I suppose, since what happened with Q. People don't know what to make of that. They don't understand why I did what I did, so they're afraid of me. Or they think I'm unpredictable, at best."

"Maybe you are. And that can be a wonderful quality at times, Brooke. But in situations like this, the Captain needs to know how people will respond. If Commander Riker knew what you did and had suggested what you had, perhaps the Captain would have taken the road through Moria, or not stopped for the night. But you can hardly blame him, Brooke; that is simply human nature."

Brooke nodded. "I know. I just hope human nature doesn't get us all killed." She turned to go back. "I know you don't trust me, either, but … thanks for listening, Legolas."

A smile actually found its way to the edges of Troi's lips at the nickname. "That irritates the Captain," she informed Brooke.

Brooke smirked mischievously. "Why do you think I do it?"

Troi shook her head. "You may fool the others, Brooke, but not me. You do it because you want this place to seem real."

"See, that's the problem," Brooke explained as they headed back. "If this is real, and follows the book, Gandalf dies in Moria, and, later, so do I."

* * *

><p>They reached their camp, and Brooke lay down on the edge of the group, silent. At last, everyone else besides Data was asleep. Brooke sat up quietly and looked around.<p>

"I would not advise trying to leave," Data said, apparently assuming she hadn't noticed him.

A smile crept over Brooke's face. "Wouldn't dream of it, Pippin. Why would I want to?"

"Why else would you be awake?" Data reasoned.

"I couldn't sleep. And … well, I wanted to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"I heard that after what happened in Ten-Forward, the Calamarain came back to attack Q again, and you saved him. Why?"

"It was … the right thing to do."

Brooke nodded. "Ironic. You do the right thing, and no one bats an eyelid. I do the right thing, and no one trusts me because of it." And before Data could say a word, Brooke rolled over and pretended to sleep.

* * *

><p>It was early in the morning when they awoke, and the sun was not yet poking over the mountains in the distance. Data, though, assured them it was time to get started.<p>

Brooke rubbed her eyes sleepily and got to her feet. "Anything unusual, Pippin?"

Data looked up. "No, Brooke. There was nothing."

"Nothing?" Brooke asked, genuinely surprised. "Not a bird? An odd cloud? A sound?"

"No, Brooke. There was nothing. There were no sounds of any kind."

"That's unusual in itself," Riker pointed out. "There should be crickets, or some sort of animal. And there should be birds. Not necessarily spies, but just regular birds. But there aren't any."

Brooke smiled gratefully. "If you bring a Ranger with you, you would do well to listen to him, especially if that Ranger is Aragorn."

"And if you bring an expert with you, you would do well to listen to her?" Riker concluded. "Still sore, Boromir?"

Brooke clenched her teeth, but then realized that Riker had used her character's name. "How can I be sore?" she asked, her mood improved considerably by that one word. "How can I be sore, when Boromir's the one who's dead set against Moria in the book. He's the one who wants to go through the Gap of Rohan."

Riker cracked a smile as they all packed up their bags. "You're right; I'd forgotten that. Aragorn argued against Moria, too, didn't he?"

"Yes; it was Gandalf who knew they would be forced to take the path through Khazad-dum."

"Khazad-dum?" Worf questioned.

"The Dwarvish name for Moria."

"As fascinating as that may be, Brooke, and no matter what you call it, we are not going there," Picard reminded her.

Brooke shrugged casually. "If you say so, Gandalf."

"Brooke, if you do anything to jeopardize this mission—"

"For goodness' sakes, Captain! I am _not_ your enemy!"

"Like Q isn't our enemy?"

"So you admit that's what the problem is, then. I made a decision, and I'm willing to defend that choice."

"You—"

"Captain," Data interrupted. "Brooke did exactly as I did."

"Your parents weren't killed by Q!"

"I fail to see why that makes a difference," Data reasoned. "If anything, that would give her a reason _not_ to help Q."

"That's what worries him," Brooke said quietly. "Everyone expected one decision, and I chose another. They don't understand why. And people always fear what they don't understand."

"Brooke, that is ridiculous!" Picard insisted.

"Is it? Is it really so strange? It's a human reaction, whether you like it or not. But, whether you believe it or not, I'm not your enemy. We all want the same thing here: to destroy the Ring. I may disagree with your decision as much as you disagree with mine, but I will stand by your choice. I hope as much as you do that we can make it over Caradhras. And I am not so petty that I would endanger all our lives just to prove you wrong. I will lead this Fellowship wherever you say, be it over Caradhras or into a dragon's lair, or to the tower of Barad-dur, if it serves our purpose."

Picard blinked. "Barad-dur? Is that supposed to mean something?"

To his surprise, Brooke burst out laughing. "Yes, but I hope you never have to find out for yourself. Come on. We should get going."

After making a breakfast out of one of the loaves of bread, they set off, Brooke leading the way, with Picard close behind. Riker and Troi followed, with Dr. Crusher and Wesley behind them. Then came Geordi and Data. Worf came last, using his ax to gather what firewood they could find and handing it on up the row. By the time they reached the foot of the mountains, each person was carrying as much as he could.

"Here's hoping we find a way to light all this," Geordi laughed, observing Data's bulging pack and the heaps of wood the android carried. Brooke looked back, and couldn't help laughing – she could barely see Data through all the wood.

Slowly, the Fellowship made its way up into the snow. Soon, snow began falling, as well. On they trudged, and upwards. The snow blew in their faces, until even Brooke couldn't see enough to tell where they were. Still, she told herself, the Captain had wanted to go over Caradhras, and she would lead them over, somehow…

"Captain!" Riker called from the back, where he was helping Wesley along. "We should stop until the storm clears!"

"Brooke!" Picard called to the front.

"I heard you!" Brooke called back. She looked around. "There's a cliff that way, about a hundred meters!" she yelled back over the wind. "It'll give us some shelter!"

Picard nodded his agreement, and on they went. The snow was well over their knees, and steadily growing higher. Brooke shuddered. If this went on much longer…

At last, they reached the cliff, and everyone collapsed, except for Data, who set down his wood and then sat down alongside the others. Wesley was rubbing his feet, reminding Brooke quite suddenly that neither he, his mother, nor Geordi had any shoes. They had torn up a few of the bags earlier and wrapped some of the cloth around their feet, but it wasn't doing much good. Troi was shivering in her light Elven clothes, though Riker had given her his cloak. Snow was piled on top of Picard's hat. Brooke's arms ached; wood was heavier than she had thought, though her armor was keeping her warm, for the most part. Only Data and Worf appeared undaunted by the journey, and even Worf was beginning to look uncomfortable in the cold despite his Dwarven armor.

Brooke turned to Picard. "We're not turning back," Picard said firmly.

Brooke shook her head. "I wasn't going to suggest it," she lied. "I was going to ask what you would say to fire, if we can make one. And then I was going to ask if Q thought to give you any miruvor."

"Any what?"

"If you look in your cloak somewhere, you should find a small flask of leather. Now, about that fire…"

"If you can find a way to light one, certainly." Picard began searching his cloak.

"May I borrow your staff?"

Picard looked up, then handed her his staff, which he seemed surprised he still had. "By all means."

Brooke looked at the staff for a moment and then chose a large log and placed it in the middle of their little circle. Then she raised the staff and thrust it into the wood. "Naur an edraith ammen!"

Nothing happened. She tried again, and once more, but, still, there was nothing. After several more tries, she flung the staff to the ground and sat down, frustrated.

Picard got to his feet. "How did that go, Brooke?"

"Naur an edraith ammen," Brooke repeated.

Picard nodded, picked up the staff, and, repeating the words, thrust the staff into the log. Still, nothing happened. The rest of the Fellowship took turns trying the same thing, but nothing, not even a spark, appeared. At last, Picard interrupted their futile attempts, holding out a leather flask to Brooke. "Is this what you wanted?"

Brooke nodded readily. "Pass it around. Only a sip each; it will have to last us across the mountains."

Picard drank a sip and passed it on. "So now you think we can make it over?"

Brooke took a small sip, and, to her relief, felt warmer, and some of her strength seemed to return. "What I think isn't important," she admitted as she passed the miruvor along to Wesley. "What's important, Gandalf, is a message I received in a dream last night … from Q."

"What did he say?"

"He said that if we go to Moria … one of us will not survive."


	4. Around the Corner

**Mathematical Language Disclaimer: (for fun)**

p = I am Gene Roddenberry  
>q = I am J.R.R. Tolkien<br>r = I own this

r implies p \/ q  
>(If r is true, then either p or q is true.)<p>

~p /\ ~q  
>(p isn't true, and q isn't true.)<p>

Therefore, ~r  
>(Therefore, r isn't true.)<p>

Therefore, I do not own this.  
>QED.<p>

Sincerely,  
>A Friendly Math Teacher<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four<br>****Around the Corner**

Riker stood with his arms crossed, his expression skeptical. "He's bluffing. He's just trying to frighten us."

"Not out of the question," Brooke agreed. "But one of the Fellowship _did_ die in Moria."

"That's not important," Picard pointed out, "because we're not going there. We are going over these mountains."

"Then I have a suggestion," Brooke put in. "We should set out immediately. We're all tired, but, without a fire, we'll be just as cold here as we would be continuing on. And we should leave the wood. We won't be able to light it, and it'll lessen our burden considerably."

"I agree," Riker nodded, and Brooke breathed a sigh of relief. At last. "Also," Riker added, "the snow is getting higher. Soon, we won't be able to walk through it without a path. Data, Worf, and I should go in front and try to clear a path for the rest of you."

Picard nodded. "Good idea, Number One."

"And since we're leaving the wood," Brooke volunteered, "we can take the food and put it into only a couple of the sacks. The rest of sacks we can use to try to keep these frozen Hobbit feet a little warmer."

"A good idea, Brooke," Picard admitted. "Make it so."

Brooke watched as Data and Worf tore the bags and gave them to Wesley, Dr. Crusher, and Geordi. Soon, their feet were no longer quite as freezing. But Brooke knew it wouldn't last long. Water would keep soaking through, and snow would fall through the tops, as it was falling into everyone else's shoes and boots.

As Worf, Data, and Riker headed out in front, Brooke took off her gloves and held them out to Riker. "They're plenty big enough, and you'll need them more than I do if you're digging through snow," she reasoned. Riker seemed about ready to protest, but thought better of it and took the gloves.

They set out again, slower this time. Data went in front, clearing a path. Behind him came Worf and Riker, pushing more snow out of the way. Brooke came next, trying to see where they were going, but more or less just hoping a straight line would do the job. Picard came after her, helping Wesley along. Last came Geordi, Dr. Crusher, and Troi, trying to keep warm by staying close together.

Things got steadily worse as the snow continued to fall. Data stopped for a moment to come back and lift a grateful Wesley onto his back. Picard was using his staff for support, and even Worf was grumbling.

Suddenly, there was a low rumbling. Most of the Fellowship ignored the sound, but Picard looked up. "Avalanche!" he called to the others. "Avalanche!"

No one seemed to know what to do. Even Brooke was at a loss. "Stay together!" Riker called, pulling everyone closer. "Hold on!"

Just then, the snow rolled down on top of them, knocking them off their feet. In a matter of seconds, the Fellowship was covered in a deep blanket of snow.

Data was the first to shake himself free, still holding tightly onto Wesley. Aided by yells, he soon found Worf and Geordi. Brooke and Riker fought their way free together, and then Troi and Dr. Crusher. But Picard was nowhere to be found.

Riker, Geordi, Worf, and Data began plowing through the snow. It was Worf who found him, unconscious, a bad bump on his head. Soon, though, he was coughing and sputtering and opened his eyes.

"Q," Picard mumbled. "He thinks he's beaten us."

"Maybe he has," Dr. Crusher suggested reluctantly.

"Doctor—"

"Captain, we are dangerously close to hypothermia. If we stay here more than a few hours, now that we're all wet and covered in snow, we'll freeze to death, and the only one left by the time we reach the other side will be Data!"

"We don't just have a few hours left," Brooke put in. "We have days. And we have no fire and no shelter once nightfall comes. We're all freezing; by now, we'll be lucky if we can make it back along the path alive. And if we continue on, Gandalf, this mountain will not just be the death of the Hobbits, but of all of us except Pippin."

Picard sighed. "Beaten by a mountain. By snow. I suppose you're going to say you told us so."

Brooke shook her head. "No. They did the same thing in the book, only to be defeated by the fury of Caradhras. And they went on to defeat their other enemies, stronger because of the risk they met together at the beginning of their journey." She met Picard's gaze, a fierce light in her grey eyes. "And so will we."

Picard nodded slowly. "So will we."

After once more passing around the miruvor and sharing another loaf of bread, they set off back down the path. Soon, the snowfall began to lighten. Picard looked back towards the mountains.

"I don't think so, Sir," Riker shook his head. "He's letting us go. If we try to go on again now, we can expect the storms to start up again."

Picard nodded reluctantly, and they continued their retreat. As Brooke had predicted, going back was no easier than going forwards. The avalanche had piled the snow in drifts that, in places, rose well above their heads. It seemed like ages before they at last passed the cliff where they had rested. Picard protested that it must be a different cliff, but Data assured him it was the same one.

"Furthermore," the android continued, calling back from the front of the group, "if we proceed at our present speed, we will reach the base of the mountain in four hours, twenty-five minutes, and three point two seconds."

Brooke stared at the android for a moment, then looked up at the sky. "That's pushing nightfall, Gandalf. I make it about fourteen-hundred hours now."

"Thirteen-hundred and twelve," Data corrected.

"You're right; it's winter – early sunset," Brooke agreed. "Once it's dark, it's going to get even colder up here – fast."

Picard nodded. "Noted. But there's little we can do about that, Brooke. We're going as fast as we can."

Brooke looked around. He was right. She adjusted her shield on her back and sighed. Then, suddenly, she looked up. "Wait! Gandalf, we're going downhill now! This should be easier, but we're making it harder than it has to be. Look!" She took her shield off her back. "We can use it as a sled! We can ride down!"

"All of us at once?" Riker asked. "Or have someone tote it back up here for the next person?"

"I am capable of that, Sir," Data volunteered.

Picard seemed ready to object, to call the idea silly and childish, but rethought. It was silly, but it was possible. "Very well," he agreed. "Take Wesley first."

Brooke shook her head. "We shouldn't send the Ringbearer down first; Data would have to leave him there alone. Not a good idea."

"I'll go," Riker volunteered.

Picard nodded. "Make it so."

Data took the shield from Brooke and held it while Riker climbed on. Geordi held it for Data and then gave them a push. The improvised sled started off down the mountainside. Soon, they were out of sight.

After little more than half an hour, Brooke guessed, Data returned with the shield. "Take Wesley next," Brooke instructed. "He'll be safe with Aragorn. Then take the other Hobbits; even with these shoes, they're the most likely to get frostbite. Then you can take Legolas."

Picard nodded his agreement, though he was still more than a little upset about Brooke giving orders. "There is one problem, Sir," Data pointed out. "The sled is … rather difficult to steer."

Brooke burst out laughing. A smile crept over even Picard's face. Then he handed the android his staff. "Use it as a rudder," he suggested as Wesley hopped up on the shield.

"Thank you, Sir," Data nodded, and joined Wesley. He then came back for Dr. Crusher, Geordi, and then Troi.

"You're next, Brooke," Picard instructed at the sight of Data once more climbing easily up the mountain, carrying not only her shield, but Picard's staff.

Brooke was too cold to argue, and said nothing as Worf lifted her onto the shield. Data climbed on after her. "May I?" Brooke asked, a light in her eyes as she held out her hands for Picard's staff. "I've always wanted to steer a sled down Caradhras."

"That is a curious ambition," Data remarked, but handed her the staff, anyway. Grinning, Brooke used it to push off, and they started down the mountain.

"Where'd you take the others?" Brooke called over the sound of the wind.

"Follow the path."

"It's getting too dark to see the path!" But it was joy, not panic, that found its way to Brooke's voice. They were sledding down Caradhras on a shield! She laughed to think what Tolkien would have thought of that.

"Left!" Data called over the wind rushing past them. "Now right! Do not hit the rock!"

"I saw the rock!"

"I do not believe you did, Brooke."

"Scared yet?"

"I am an android, Brooke. I do not feel—"

"Oh, come on! Aren't you having the least bit of fun?"

"There is a rock ahead. Turn left. Do you see them?"

Brooke grinned as the others came into view. Using the staff, she slowed the sled to a stop and hopped off. "Thanks, Pippin!" Data said nothing, but turned and headed up the path.

Wesley was all smiles. "Wasn't that great, Brooke?"

"Sure was, Frodo," Brooke grinned.

They all had another laugh as the last ride came down, carrying not only Data but both Picard and Worf, both of whom looked thoroughly disgusted by the whole idea of riding down the mountain on a little sled, and even less excited about the fact that they were crammed tightly together.

"Well, now that we're all here," Picard said, taking his staff back from Data, "we have another choice to make."

"Let's sit down," Riker suggested. "We're all tired."

"Very well," Picard nodded, and they all sat on the ground. "We are faced, once again, with a choice between evils, except now we must choose the lesser of two."

"I suggest the Gap of Rohan," Troi put in, startling everyone, but especially Brooke.

"What about Saruman?" the teen demanded. "What about the armies of Uruk-Hai that are waiting for us there?"

"We might be able to avoid them," Riker suggested. "If we travel far enough south…"

"If we travel far enough south to escape the Uruk-Hai, the journey will take forever, and by the time we reach Minas Tirith, the City will be destroyed!"

Everyone was silent for a moment. At last, Data asked what everyone was thinking. "What?"

Brooke blinked, startled by her own words, but quickly recovered. "All right, geography lesson. There are two ways into Mordor. One is through the Black Gate. We'd never get in that way without being noticed; it's far too heavily guarded. The other is through a pass called Cirith Ungol that runs through the mountains. Now, if we go south along the mountains to the Gap of Rohan, and then go far enough south to avoid the Uruk-Hai, then we have to go east after that. To get to Cirith Ungol just by going east, we'd have to go straight through Gondor. The problem is time. Sauron is gathering his forces. Even if we get past the Uruk-Hai, which would be quite a feat in and of itself, Sauron will strike Gondor, and we'll find ourselves in the middle of a battle."

Picard sighed. "Then you still suggest Moria."

"Yes."

"In spite of Q's warning."

"Yes."

"Because of all this about Minas Tirith and Cirith Ungol?"

"No. Because it's what you're looking for: the lesser of the two evils. If we take the Gap of Rohan, Saruman and his Uruk-Hai will see us coming. They will find us. They will take the Ring. And you—" She turned to Wesley, her voice dark. "You will beg for death before the end."

Wesley blinked, startled by the change. But Brooke simply turned to Picard, a deadly seriousness in her voice. "Gandalf. Captain. Whichever you prefer as long as you listen. If Saruman takes the Ring, that is the end. I can't guarantee that we will all survive if we take the road through Moria. But if death finds us there, it will find us quickly. And it may be that we will escape. It's our best chance."

Picard turned to Riker. "Number One?"

"I wish I could say, Sir. Now that it actually comes to making this choice, it's harder to convince myself that Q's bluffing. Maybe he's trying to frighten us. But maybe we _should_ be frightened. Even the real Gandalf was barely able to defeat the Balrog. I'm not sure what kind of twisted intuition makes Brooke think we stand a chance.

"But, whatever it is, Sir, she was right about Caradhras. I don't want to test that again with the Gap of Rohan. She says we don't have a chance of escaping the Uruk-Hai. From what I remember of Saruman, I'm forced to agree. If it comes down to a fight, I don't think the nine of us could fight off Saruman's entire army, to say nothing of getting to Mordor after that. So, as much as the road through Moria gives me an … uneasy feeling, to say the least, I have to agree with Brooke. It's our only option, Sir. Balrog or no Balrog, real Gandalf or no, we have to go through Moria."

Brooke breathed a sigh of relief. Yes. Yes, finally. Finally, they understood. It wasn't that she _wanted_ to go to Moria. But it was the only choice. But would Captain Picard see that?

Picard looked up at last from the patch of ground he had been studying intently. "Brooke, you had some good ideas on the mountain, even though you disagreed with me. I may not trust you, but I do believe you want this mission to succeed. You recommended it, and now it's your job to get us out alive, Brooke. Everyone, get a good rest. In the morning, we go to Moria."


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine. I even borrowed the title for this one.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<br>****Out of the Frying Pan**

Fire. Fire so hot, Brooke could feel it even from where she stood. A sword leapt from the fire and was met by a blinding white light. "You cannot pass!"

Brooke's eyes flew open. She knew who had sent the dream. And, as she sat up looked around, she saw him standing there. "Q!" No one else seemed to have noticed the entity.

"I froze time," Q explained, kneeling beside her. "As soon as I'm gone, everything will start again. We need to talk."

"About what?"

"You ignored my warning."

"No, I called your bluff. You won't interfere. It's too amusing to watch us play it out by ourselves."

A smile crossed Q's face. "Brooke, you know better than them that I don't _need _to interfere."

"We will make it through Moria."

"You really think you can?"

"It doesn't matter whether we can. We _will_."

Q shook his head. "So sure of your choice. But you know I'm right. If you go to Moria, one of you will die. You know that, Brooke. You can't protect them."

Brooke leapt to her feet as Q disappeared. "I _will _find a way! I don't care what it takes, Q! I will find a way to save them!"

Data turned. "I advise you not to shout, Brooke. I heard some wolves, in that direction." He pointed north.

"Wargs!" Brooke shouted. "Get up! Wolves! They're after us! Hurry!"

The rest of the Fellowship got sleepily to their feet. "Quickly!" Brooke yelled. "The wolves are after us!" She took off down the path before anyone could ask what wolves would want with a ring.

Brooke could hear the others stumbling after her in the dark. Finally, she slowed down. Panic had gotten the best of her. They needed to stay together, or they would get lost and be picked off easily one by one. And she was the only one who knew the way. What they needed was light, but it was still hours before dawn.

"Naur an edraith ammen!" The voice came from behind her. Brooke turned and, to her surprise, saw Picard with his staff thrust into the end of a burning piece of wood. Hurriedly, he took his staff out, picked up the wood, and passed it to Riker, who, along with the rest of the Fellowship, was staring in surprise.

Brooke was the first to regain her senses. "Well, don't just stand there! Follow me!"

They took off, Brooke leading, Riker close behind with the torch. Behind them came Picard, with Wesley at his side, then Troi, Dr. Crusher, and Geordi. Data and Worf remained at the back, making sure that no one fell behind, and ready in case the wolves caught up with them.

Brooke barely had to think about the path at all. So many times she had walked it in her mind, guided by the detailed descriptions of one of the finest authors ever. So many times she had heard the words Picard had used to light the flames echo in her mind. And the words in the dream, as well. She had convinced herself that it was simply that: her mind giving Gandalf an almost-familiar voice.

Yet it hadn't been her mind's image of Gandalf who had lit the fire. It had been Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _Enterprise_, at last accepting part of his role in the story. But how deep did that acceptance go? If it came to a fight between him and the Balrog on the Bridge of Khazad-dum, would that acceptance hold? Could he protect the others?

_No!_ Brooke's mind screamed. No, because it wouldn't come to that. It couldn't. It wasn't Picard's job to get them out alive. It was hers, and hers alone. And she would not fail.

Yet Q's words rang in her mind. He didn't need to interfere. He simply needed to allow things to play out as they had in the book. Could she change that? Fine job she had done so far. They had tried the mountain pass, and failed, just as in the book. They were being pursued by wargs, just as in the book. They were going to Moria…

At her suggestion. She had told Picard she couldn't guarantee survival, that at least death would find them quickly. Brave words, but now they weren't enough. Somehow, she had to protect them. Somehow, they would get through Moria alive.

But before they could do that, they had to get _to_ Moria. On they went, eventually slowing to a fast walk. The sun rose, reminding them all that they had gotten little sleep and had not yet eaten. Still, they pressed onward.

It was nearly noon before Brooke at last allowed them to rest, on the banks of what had once been a riverbed. "The Sirannon," Brooke said before realizing that no one, except maybe Data, cared what the river had once been called.

"Is that good?" Riker asked. "I didn't remember the road to Moria being this long."

"We'll be lucky if we reach the doors before sunset," Brooke nodded, sitting down on a nearby rock. "But this river means I know where we are. Here our path turns east, and we follow the riverbed until we reach a dry waterfall. On the north side, there will be stairs carved into the rock, leading up. At the top is a small lake. We'll need to go around the north side."

"I believe we can all swim," Picard suggested.

"That doesn't matter. What matters is a creature known as the Watcher in the Water. Huge creature, with long tentacles, like an octopus or a squid – except a lot bigger. Trust me, you don't want to swim with that thing."

Picard nodded. "We should eat while we can," he suggested.

"All right, but quickly," Brooke agreed. "The wolves will not have stopped. They'll be less likely to attack in the light of day, but I wouldn't want to give them the chance."

"Agreed. We'll rest ten minutes, then continue."

Brooke took an apple from her pack. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before – you did a good job with that fire."

Picard shook his head. "Do you know why it worked here and not on the mountain? Is Q toying with us?"

"Maybe. But I don't think so. Actually, it's probably my fault. I made the mistake of trying it myself first, when it should have been you. You never really took it in as part of your character until this morning." Brooke smiled. "It's good to see people accepting their roles."

As soon as she said it, she knew she shouldn't have. "And you think I'm just going to _accept _everything that happens to my character in the book?" Picard asked, his voice cold. "We should just _accept _it if this Balrog shows up in Moria and drags me off the Bridge of Cause-of-Doom?"

"Khazad-dum," Brooke corrected, trying to control her temper. Why did he have to take everything she said the wrong way?

Or was he? The thought of the fight on the bridge _had _crossed her mind. Was she relieved that he was accepting Gandalf's role?

But Picard wasn't done. "Whatever it's called, do you expect me to just sit back and _accept _it? It's no wonder you decided to help Q! He's responsible for your mother's death, and you just _accepted _it. What a wonderful life you must have, Brooke!"

Brooke looked up, a fire in her grey eyes that could have lit a torch as well as Picard's staff. But when she spoke, her voice was quiet and low. "You don't know what you're talking about." With that, she got up, turned her back on the Fellowship, and headed off down the river.

It wasn't long before she heard footsteps behind her. "Leave me alone, Legolas!" she called without turning.

"It's not Legolas, Boromir." Riker. Soon, he was walking alongside her. Brooke turned away. "He didn't mean it, Brooke." The gentleness in his voice only made the lie even more painful.

"Yes, he did," Brooke said quietly, sitting down along the riverbank and wiping the tears from her eyes. "And ... he's right."

"Maybe, but not in the way he thinks," Riker said, sitting down beside her. "You're a puzzle to us, Brooke; you always have been. The first time I heard that was before you even helped Q. I heard it from Deanna shortly after your mother's death. She wasn't quite sure what to do with you. You weren't going through the grieving process that most people do after the death of a loved one."

Brooke scoffed. "I only talked with her once, after she insisted."

Riker nodded. "I know. You puzzled her, Brooke, because, at the very center of your emotions, she found everything she expected – anger, doubt, fear, confusion – but she also sensed peace. Peace that came from forgiveness. You hadn't even met Q, and you'd forgiven him. If that's acceptance, Brooke, there's nothing wrong with it."

Brooke shook her head. "You don't understand. I went through – am going through – what anyone else would. I just have my own way of dealing with it, that's all. Has Wesley shown you the holodeck program we use?"

"Amon Hen, I believe."

"Yes. And, every time, I'm Boromir. Why? So that I can cheat death. So that, this time, death doesn't win. _That's_ how I deal with it, Aragorn – by convincing myself that death won't win again. Of course I forgave Q; it was never Q that I blamed."

Riker nodded slowly. "Of course. So the thought that the Captain might die just as Gandalf did – that's the last thing you want to accept."

"Yes!" He understood.

Riker placed a hand on Brooke's shoulder and squeezed it gently. "Brooke, if I had known this, I never would have second-guessed your thoughts about Moria. Clearly, the last thing you want is for any of us to die, and you would not suggest a path where that could happen unless there were no other choice. I'm sorry. I won't question your judgment again."

Brooke shook her head. "No, Aragorn. Keep questioning it. It makes me rethink things, until I'm sure of my choice. The more people argued for the Gap of Rohan, the surer I was that we had to go through Khazad-dum, because you came up with everything, and nothing worked."

Riker smiled. "So we convinced you that you're the expert."

Brooke managed a laugh. "I suppose so."

"Come on; we should get going, and they won't leave without you."

Gandalf might," Brooke scoffed as she got up.

Riker shook his head. "The Captain has a temper, but he knows as well as the rest of us that we need you. That's why Q chose Middle-Earth, after all. And that," he smiled, "is most of the reason for the temper."

Brooke nodded. He was right. Picard wasn't nearly as upset at her as he was at Q for forcing them to rely on her. But she was there, and Q wasn't. At least now he was willing to follow her advice. But if things started to go wrong, would he still listen?

Brooke shook the thought from her head. Things wouldn't go wrong. She wouldn't let them.

* * *

><p>Sure enough, when they returned, the rest of the Fellowship was ready to go, but still waiting for them. Brooke avoided Picard's gaze as she picked up her pack and they continued on.<p>

The sun was beginning to set as they came to a dry waterfall, some ten meters tall. They found the stairs easily and started up the path.

Suddenly, there came a terrible howling from behind them. "Don't look back!" Brooke called in case some of them had started to. Soon, she reached the top. When she turned to take the northern path around the lake, however, a line of wolves stood in her path. More were scrambling up the stairs after the rest of the Fellowship.

Brooke backed up towards the lake, and the others followed. "What now?" Picard whispered sharply.

"The lake," Riker suggested. "We'll have to swim across. You first, Wes. Data, go with him."

"I can swim," Wesley protested.

"Not as quietly as Data. We shouldn't disturb the water any more than necessary."

Wesley climbed onto Data's back. Carefully, Data waded into the lake. The wolves simply stood there, guarding the path, as if they, too, were afraid of the water, and what lurked inside.

"Stay close to the edge," Brooke advised as the others waded in. Slowly, she, Picard, and Riker, the only ones left, backed up towards the water.

"Go," Riker nudged Brooke. Brooke seemed about ready to say something, but waded out into the water. Riker and Picard followed.

Brooke was nearly halfway around the edge of the lake when the sand she was expecting to step on wasn't there. A drop-off! She hadn't expected a drop-off – she had been hoping the water around the edges would stay relatively shallow. She went under quickly, and came up flailing her arms and gasping for air. "I can't swim!"

Just as she saw the others swimming to help, she was pulled under again, this time by a giant tentacle. When she surfaced again, it was in the middle of the lake, grasped by a giant arm of the Watcher in the Water.

Some of the others hadn't reached the shore in time, either. Geordi was clutched in another tentacle nearby. Picard and Riker were both swimming with all their strength towards the opposite shore.

"Mellon!" Riker shouted, before he had even reached the shore. Everyone else looked around, perhaps expecting a giant melon to appear out of nowhere, but Brooke knew what Riker was doing – opening the doors of Moria. A tentacle reached for him, but he had his sword out and ready. "Get inside!" he yelled, grabbing Troi's bow and arrows. "Get everyone else inside! Data! I'm going to need you!" That was the last thing Brooke heard before she went under again.

Again she came up, gasping for breath, her head starting to spin. She could see Riker shooting. The beast had dropped Geordi, and Data was going after him, covered fairly well by Riker's aim, which, had Brooke had more time to ponder, she would have been impressed by.

As it was, as soon as Geordi had been dropped, she was dragged under again, further this time. Down they went, into the depths of the lake. Brooke's lungs felt like they would burst.

Suddenly, an arm grabbed hers. Riker was hacking at the tentacle with his sword. Beside him, Data was trying to pry her loose. Finally, the creature let go. Data and Riker grabbed Brooke, and they both swam for the surface. At last, they broke the water, and Brooke took one deep breath before darkness took her.


	6. When the Road Darkens

**Disclaimer: **I didn't acquire the rights to Star Trek or Lord of the Rings since posting the last chapter. Therefore, this is still not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<br>****When the Road Darkens**

It was pitch black. That was the first thing Brooke noticed when she came to. The next was that she was lying on her back on a cold stone floor. There was breathing nearby, so she wasn't alone. "Brooke?" The sudden noise alerted Brooke to the pounding in her head. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping the pain would subside. "Brooke?" Picard again.

"Boromir?" Riker. Brooke opened her eyes and slowly sat up. "So we're inside?"

"You don't miss a thing," Wesley said sarcastically. "You might have mentioned that it was going to be this dark."

"Slipped my mind while I was being tossed around by the Watcher. How's everyone else?"

"You also might have mentioned that you can't swim," Picard put in, obviously irritated.

Brooke bit her tongue. "I'll remember that the next time I'm caught between deep water and being eaten by wolves. How is everyone?"

It was Riker who answered. "We're all right, for the most part, but your Watcher seems to have made a meal out of Geordi's visor."

Brooke almost burst out laughing, but then remembered they had to be quiet. "It's also closed the doors on us, I see. Or, rather, I don't see. So, really, we're all in the same boat, Merry."

"Swell," Geordi said, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Does Gandalf still have his staff?" Brooke asked.

"Yes, but we haven't figured out how to make it light up," Riker explained. "Any ideas?"

"No," Brooke admitted. "It never says _how_ he does it; it just says he does. Try to concentrate. Imagine the end of your staff lighting up like a supernova. That kind of thing."

"It's _not _funny, Brooke," Picard insisted.

"Well, if you can't get that thing to light, we might as well stay here for the night. Blindly finding our way through Moria when we're all about to fall asleep on our feet? No, thanks."

There was an odd silence. "Brooke, it is already oh-eight-hundred hours," Data informed her.

"I was out for that long?"

"We were beginning to worry," Riker admitted. "But Data stayed on watch, and we all got some sleep. If you need to rest, though—"

"No. I'm all right," Brooke lied. Her head was spinning and there was a terrible ringing in her ears, but they had already stayed in one place for far too long.

"There's one more thing," Riker admitted after a moment of heavy silence. "Since Data could still see, we sent him ahead to explore. While he was out, Q apparently disabled his night vision sensors and wiped his memory of what he had seen." He took a deep breath. "On the way back, he apparently bumped into an old suit of armor, which fell down some stairs and made quite a racket."

"What?" Brooke leapt to her feet, ignoring the spinning and the ringing. "We have to get moving, quickly! Gandalf, we need that staff working, _now_! We'll have to eat as we go, and we can't stop for the night. Gandalf, give everyone another sip of miruvor; we'll need it."

Just then, light burst forth from the end of Picard's staff. Slowly, it faded to a dim glow that lit the area around them. Picard reached into his cloak for the miruvor, but shook his head. "It must have fallen out in the water."

Brooke simply nodded. "Then let's go."

"Brooke, correct me if I'm wrong," Riker said as they started up a stairway, "but I don't remember any maps of Moria in the book. Do you really know the way?"

Brooke blinked. She hadn't thought of that. So many of the passageways in Moira were never described. She had no detailed step-by-step instructions for which pathways to take. Every so often, an archway was described, but not everything. Even Gandalf hadn't known the way every time, and had occasionally had to guess. She would have to do the same.

"Yes," she lied. "I know where I'm going." And, to make her point, she plunged ahead into the darkness. Picard followed behind, lighting the way. Next came Wesley and Dr. Crusher. Data came next, helping Geordi along. They were followed by Worf, Troi, and, last of all, Riker, who had adopted Aragorn's place at the back.

Brooke put up her best front of decisiveness. She made the choices quickly, remembering that they needed to go down, but trying not to go too far down. Along the way, huge gaps in the stairs haunted their path. Much to Brooke's annoyance, she and Wesley had to be tossed across the larger ones by Data. Geordi, as well, after nearly falling once, remained content to be tossed.

Before long, Brooke began to hear the sound she had expected: a light padding of webbed feet. Data heard it, too.

"Gollum," Brooke explained when he asked. "He's been following us."

"You expected this?" Picard asked.

"Yes."

"And you didn't tell us?"

"He's not an immediate threat. There are too many of us; he won't attack Frodo now. He knows better."

"Skittish little thing," Wesley observed. Every time they stopped for a moment, the padding stopped soon after.

"That's one way of putting it," Brooke nodded. "But if you ever find yourself on your own, Frodo, look out."

There was silence for a while as they went. After a few more hours – sooner than Brooke had expected; perhaps Q was shortening the way, as he had from Rivendell to Caradhras – they found what Brooke wanted: a dark arch opening into three passageways. The middle ran straight on in the darkness. The left passage led to a long downward flight of stairs, and the left one climbed upwards.

Brooke smiled. She knew where they were. She might have had a hard time with the choice, but, thankfully, Gandalf had already made it for her in the book. "After a short break, we'll take the right-hand passage. It must be well past noon."

They all looked at Data, who had no answer. "It would seem that Q has disrupted my sense of time."

Riker shrugged. "Well, that could be good. If we don't know when it's nighttime, we won't know how tired we're supposed to be."

Brooke smiled, but she knew he was right. Her headache had faded with the distraction and the adrenaline. She was almost beginning to enjoy Moria, and could have done so, easily, if not for the constant threat of the Balrog hanging over their heads. She was tired – they all were – but she pushed past that with the thought that maybe, just maybe, if they moved quickly enough, they might be able to avoid trouble.

Just as Brooke had known, the right-hand passage climbed steadily upward, and the path widened as they went. Brooke was relieved for a while of any decisions; the path they wanted was clear. For hours they went, without trouble, without a sound, well into the night. Everyone knew it was late, but Brooke dared not stop for a rest, not even for dinner, until they had reached the ancient city of Dwarrowdelf. It became a game of sorts. Wesley and Data would point around, asking, "Is that Dwarrowdelf?" at everything that remotely looked like someone could have lived in it. "Is that Dwarrowdelf? How about that?" Brooke got quite a few silent laughs out of it, and it kept Wesley going.

At last, the walls seemed to fall away, and they stood in an open chamber. "This," Brooke said, and was surprised at how much her voice echoed, even when she was trying to speak softly. "This—" she gestured all around her, "—is the city of Dwarrowdelf."

As if on cue, Picard's staff shone brighter for a moment, filling the whole room. Then it died down again to a faint glimmer. Brooke grinned. They'd made it.

But they weren't out yet. Picard suggested that they stop for a very late dinner, and they all agreed readily. Even Brooke was beginning to think that maybe they had been quiet enough, maybe Data hadn't disturbed the Balrog after all, maybe…

Then she heard it, in the distance, but coming steadily closer: the sound of drums. Doom, doom, doom, doom, came the echo across the ancient Dwarf-kingdom. Doom, doom, doom, doom. "No," Brooke whispered. "Not now."

"Brooke?" Riker asked.

Brooke scrambled to her feet and pointed to a northern passage. "That way! We won't win a fight in the open, and we can't flee with the enemy right on our tail. Follow me! Into the Chamber of Mazarbul! The Chamber of Records! Hurry!"

They all followed her through the northern arch and into a long hallway. They passed through a doorway on the right, into a smaller chamber. Brooke looked up towards a shaft facing east, as if looking for daylight, but it was still nighttime outside; no light would shine through. "Close the western door!" she called. "Leave the east door ajar! Prepare for battle!"

"You're kidding," Geordi insisted, and Brooke remembered that he was still blind. But not only that. Only Worf, and perhaps Data, Riker, and Picard, seemed comfortable enough with their weapons. Wesley had fought before, but only holographic images. Having given her bow to Riker, Troi was left with two knives. Dr. Crusher's sword was shaking in her hands. What were they doing?

Brooke didn't have time to give any more orders. The Orcs broke through the western door. Worf charged, and the Orcs rushed in.

They were in over their heads. Dr. Crusher, aided by Picard, was doing her best to protect Wesley. Worf, in turn, was trying to protect Picard and Dr. Crusher. Data was protecting Geordi. Riker was protecting Troi. Brooke found herself running everywhere, trying to help everyone who needed it, cutting down as many Orcs as she could along the way, relying on her instincts from long hours in the holodeck.

Still, they were holding their own until another crashing came from the western side of the chamber. It was a cave troll, wielding a massive club. Brooke's mind raced. What was Q doing? There wasn't supposed to be a cave troll!

Soon, however, Brooke realized that Q had simply thrown in a wild card. The cave troll was careless of the Orcs, and Brooke soon found that if she kept one of them between the troll and herself, the troll was more than likely to hit the Orc, instead. So Brooke found herself fulfilling the role of troll-distracter, leading it to wipe out as many Orcs as possible.

At last, they appeared to be winning. The Orcs were fewer, but there was still the troll to deal with, and, once she ran out of Orcs, Brooke knew she would be in trouble. "Aragorn!" she called without turning. "Shoot it! Shoot it in the head!" Having at last no nearby Orcs to shield herself with, she ran to Riker's side to cover him.

Riker fit an arrow to the string and let it fly. It was a good shot, striking the troll squarely in the eye. The beast lumbered in their direction. Its club smashed into the wall, sending a shower of rocks through the air. One struck Troi in the head, and she went down. Brooke rushed to her side just in time to intercept an Orc's blow that would have pierced Troi's chest, but the force of the blow knocked Brooke to the ground, dazed. Riker was left unprotected as he aimed another arrow. As he let it go, the troll's club swung into the nearest pillar, knocking it over. It crashed to the ground, pinning Brooke by her right leg, and narrowly missing Troi. Fortunately, it also crushed the Orc that Brooke had been fighting.

Pain. For a moment, the only thing that mattered was the crushing pain in her leg. Then she saw Riker. Part of the pillar had landed on his chest, and a pool of blood was forming around him. His gaze was fixed on Brooke. "Lead them home, Boromir," he said quietly, and his eyes closed.

"No!" Brooke shouted. "No! No, Q! Damn it! No! Not like this! Enough, Q! Call it off! I said stop it, Q!" But she knew it was useless. Her own words rang in her ears as the pain in her leg began to cloud her mind. _"Where's the fun in a game you can end as soon as the tide starts to turn against you?"_

And turn it did. From across the room, Picard turned to see what she was shouting about, and an Orc took the opportunity to shoot him in the back. Worf quickly slew the Orc, but Picard was already sinking to the floor. It all seemed like a dream. A nightmare. Death had won.

"Lead them home," Riker had said. She couldn't. She was trapped. But she couldn't ignore his request. Slowly, painfully, she reached towards him. Her hand closed around his bow. An arrow was still near it. One arrow. One shot. She had never been a good archer. Try as she might on the holodeck, a sword was her weapon, not this thing.

"Pippin!" she yelled over the clamor, and Data turned. After grabbing Geordi and dragging him to relative safety beside Worf, the android joined Brooke. He was preparing to lift the pillar off her, but Brooke shook her head. "Take the bow. Shoot the troll. Quickly!"

Data took aim and fired. The arrow met its target, squarely in the middle of the troll's forehead. The troll wobbled a little, then toppled to the floor in the middle of the chamber. Data and Worf quickly slew the few remaining Orcs.

At last, Data lifted the pieces of the pillar and tossed them harmlessly across the room. Brooke barely heard him inform her that Picard and Troi were still alive. Riker was gone.

She had failed. Q was right; she hadn't been able to save them. She couldn't do this. She wasn't Boromir, the hero from Gondor. She was Brooke, the outcast teenager from the starship _Enterprise_. And she had been foolish enough to believe she could save them.

"Brooke?" Wesley asked. "What should we do?"

Brooke looked up, startled. What made him think that she knew? What did he expect her to say?

Yet, as she looked at Wesley, she knew she had to say something. Tears were brimming in his eyes as they were in hers, but he expected an answer. He _needed_ an answer. They had nowhere else to turn.

"Hand me Gandalf's staff," Brooke instructed. "Pippin, use the pillar to block the western door; that will slow them down a little. We need to go east, and take paths leading right and downwards." Worf helped her to her feet and handed her Picard's staff. Brooke nodded her thanks amid objections from Dr. Crusher. Doing anything about her leg now wouldn't get rid of the pain, and it would only take time – time they didn't have.

She led them out, and they fell into order behind her. First came Data, carrying Riker's body, ready to catch Brooke, as well, should she fall. Worf was next, carrying Picard and Troi. Then came Wesley, stumbling along, and last of all came Dr. Crusher, leading Geordi.

Down they went, and tears and pain both fought to cloud Brooke's vision. Picard's staff still shone with a faint light, but even that seemed to be growing dim. Still, she plunged on into the darkness in front of them, for she knew an even more terrible fate awaited them behind.

At last, they entered a larger chamber, and fire lit their way. Fire! It came leaping from a great chasm in the floor. Amid the pounding in her head, Brooke realized they were on the right side of the fire; just as in the book, it separated them from the Orcs. "Hurry!" Brooke shouted. "Across the bridge!"

Even as she said it, two trolls came forewords, bearing two huge slabs of stone. "Don't look back!" Brooke ordered. "Across the bridge!"

Data scooped her up and carried her across the narrow way. At the end, they halted, all frozen in terror. The Balrog, the huge demon of fire and shadow, had come. Brooke's eyes remained fixed on it in horror.

"Brooke, we must go," said Data, the only one to keep his senses. But, even as he said it, he set her down. He knew it wasn't that easy, and only she would know what to do.

Brooke shook her head. "And have that thing on our tail? No. This ends here. Now." Without another word, she seized Picard's sword, Glamdring, from where it hung at his side, and, using his staff, hobbled back along the bridge.

The Balrog approached the bridge. Brooke trembled, but gripped Glamdring, glimmering cold and white, in her left hand. The staff shone brighter in her right. "You cannot pass!" Brooke cried, and her voice echoed off the stone walls. "You cannot pass! I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the Flame of Anor! The Dark Fire will not avail you, Flame of Udun!" She glared up at the demon, at the darkness, at death itself. "The Dark Fire will not avail you, and neither will anything else! You may take me, but this Fellowship is under my protection! They _will_ survive! _That_ is my victory!"

A sword of flame leapt from the darkness. Brooke could feel the fire, almost against her face. She held up Glamdring, and the staff blazed forth with a brilliant white light. The Balrog towered high above her. It raised its sword high. The flame came down with a crack. The force of the blow swept Glamdring from her hand and nearly knocked her off her feet. Brooke swayed, but leaned on the staff and regained her balance. "Go back to the shadow!" Raising the staff high, she cried, "You cannot pass!" and brought it down as hard as she could.

The staff shattered into a million pieces. Brooke lost her balance and fell backwards – into Data's waiting arms. He pulled her back as the bridge broke, right at the Balrog's feet. They reached the other side just as the demon tumbled down into the abyss.

Brooke stared. It had worked. She was alive. The Fellowship was safe. Fighting off Data's grip, she took the Horn of Gondor from where it hung at her side. "For you, Aragorn," she said quietly, then put it to her lips and blew one loud, long blast. The sound rang through the halls of Khazad-dum, and the Orcs turned and fled in terror.

Hearing the sound, Troi slowly opened her eyes. "What … what happened?" she asked quietly.

And, at last, Brooke sank to her knees and wept.


	7. By Waters Clear and Cool

**Disclaimer: **A little math to lighten the mood:

1 = O, 2 = E, 4 = M, 5 = N, 6 = I, 7 = T, 8 = S, 9 = H

T+H+I+S = N+O+T + M+I+N+E

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<br>****By Waters Clear and Cool**

Brooke didn't hear the explanation the others gave to Troi. She didn't care what they told her. Brooke remained collapsed in a heap by Riker's lifeless body, clutching the Horn of Gondor tightly. At the moment, it was the only thing that seemed real. More real than any of the people around her.

They were all wrapped in their own grief, trying to comfort each other. Wesley and his mother were wrapped in each other's arms. Troi was crying into Geordi's shoulder, and he had his arms around her. Data stood behind them, not quite sure of what to do to help. Only Worf lingered on the edge of the group, silent.

At last, he spoke. "His death will be avenged," he vowed, and his words echoed loudly off the stones.

There were plenty of things she could have said. What did he expect to do? Go back and smash the pillar to bits, or mash the troll's body into a pulp? Or did he plan to seek revenge against Q, which would be even less productive? But Brooke said nothing. Better to let him think there was something he could do.

Brooke tucked the Horn of Gondor back into her belt. Q had tried to warn her. It was her recommendation that had brought them here, against his attempts to dissuade her. But any other choice would have meant certain death for all of them. Riker had died here, but they would all have perished in Rohan. He had been willing to make that sacrifice.

As had she, she realized as a fiery pain filled her left arm. The moment the Balrog's blade had met hers, her image of the demon had been changed forever. It had left no visible mark, save for singing her armor, but she would never forget that fire. Yes, she had been willing to die to save the others. And almost she wished that death had claimed her, ridding her of her burden. But that was not her fate, she reminded herself, looking around at the group. She had to lead them on. She had to lead them home.

At last, Data spoke. "We must continue on, Brooke. The Orcs have fled, but they will return. Come."

Brooke nodded and allowed the android to help her to her feet. Data lifted Riker's body, and Worf lifted Picard. Brooke managed to stand, but the moment she tried to walk, no longer able to rely on Picard's staff, her right leg gave way beneath her. Dr. Crusher caught her and lowered her to a seat on the floor.

"I'm all right," Brooke insisted, trying to get up again.

"Hardly," Data observed, handing Riker's body over to Worf. Data lifted Brooke easily, and they turned to leave Moria.

As they headed down the path, light began to show through shafts in the ceiling. The path widened, and, at last, led them out of the Dwarf kingdom. The sunrise was red in the east as they gazed at last upon Dimrill Dale.

They were out.

But they were not safe. Not yet. The Orcs, Brooke knew, would follow them from Khazad-dum. Together, she and Data urged the others onward. On they went toward Lothlorien, stopping only once and briefly in order to eat a little – enough to keep up their strength – though none of them were hungry. Soon after, they came upon the Silverlode, the river they would follow until it met the Nimrodel in the Golden Wood.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the borders of Lothlorien. "Take out your sword, Frodo," Brooke advised. "In the darkness, we may not be able to see the Orcs following us, but Sting will glow blue if they are close."

Wesley was too tired to argue. He took out Sting, and they pressed onwards into the forest. Brooke knew they were all slowing, except for Data, who still carried her. They were tired. Or perhaps wary of the woods. Or both. "Pippin," Brooke said as the android slowed to let them catch up. "We'll stop once we reach the Nimrodel."

Data nodded, and Brooke called the news to the others. At the idea of a rest, at last, they pressed on a little faster. Soon, they came to another river that joined with the Silverlode, and they all collapsed, exhausted. Data set Brooke down gently by the banks of the river. Brooke ran her hands through the cool waters of the Nimrodel and splashed it on her face. Softly, as if in a dream, she began to sing,

_An Elven-maid there was of old,  
><em>_A shining star by day.  
><em>_Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
><em>_Her shoes of silver-grey_

_A star was bound upon her brows.  
><em>_A light was on her hair  
><em>_As sun upon the golden boughs  
><em>_In Lorien the fair._

The others stared, too tired and too overwhelmed by everything to even think of asking why she was singing. It was no stranger than anything else that had happened to them in the last few days. Besides, it seemed ages since any of them had heard the sound of singing. Brooke was no elf, but she had a decent voice, soft and low.

_Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
><em>_And fair she was and free  
><em>_And in the wind she went as light  
><em>_As leaf of linden-tree_

_Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
><em>_By waters clear and—_

"Daro!" came a voice from the trees. Brooke's song immediately ceased as an Elf leapt lightly to the ground. Others emerged from behind trees, their bows pointed at the various members of the Fellowship.

Just then, Picard's eyes opened. "What the—" he started, but got no farther before he was once again shushed by Brooke. "What is going on?" he whispered.

"They're Elves," Brooke said quietly, but not quietly enough, she knew, to escape Haldir's ears; she was counting on that. "We have entered the Golden Wood, hoping that the rumors were true that Elves still dwelt here in these dark days. For it is said that their people are healers, and we had hoped they might aid us in tending your wound."

"And Riker?" Picard asked, noticing that his First Officer lay beside him.

The Elf who had called to Brooke shook his head. "Even the power of the Elves cannot return the dead, Mithrandir."

"What?" Picard demanded, crushing Brooke's hopes that he had caught on to what she was trying to do. "Brooke, what have you done? What has Q done? Q! Q, I know you can hear me! This is enough! Enough!"

Haldir exchanged a look with his companions, and Brooke knew they would be lucky not to be shot soon. "Who speaks for this company?" Haldir asked impatiently, using the Common Tongue.

Before Picard could say anything, Brooke spoke. "I do. I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Our company has come from Rivendell and passed through the Mines of Moria. This is Frodo Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire. The other Halflings are Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took. This is Gimli, son of Gloin, a Dwarf of Erebor. I believe Aragorn, son of Arathorn, is known to you, but he fell in Moria. Gandalf you already know, and this is Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood. He, too, was injured in Moria by the power of a demon I will not name, and has been drifting between this world and the world of shadows. I doubt he is even aware of us," she added, hoping Troi would take a hint better than Picard; she couldn't have the Elves finding out that Troi didn't speak Elvish. "We must take him to the Lady Galadriel."

Haldir studied them for a moment. "This is a strange tale. Indeed, there are those of us in this realm who recognize Aragorn, son of Arathorn, as well as Mithrandir. When we saw you bearing them into this land as though dead, we feared you to be servants of the Enemy. Yet the Halfling called Frodo bears an ancient Elvish blade, which gives off a light when such beings are near. For this reason, we spared your lives, and were content to watch you. Then we heard your song."

Brooke nodded. So it had accomplished what she had hoped. It had made the Elves curious enough to show themselves, curious enough to ask questions before shooting.

"Strange it must sound in the voice of a man of the South," Brooke agreed, choosing her words carefully. "Yet in Gondor tales are still told of this realm, and our company stayed a while in the house of Elrond, where such songs live in abundance. My companions were in need of a melody to lift their spirits, and though I am not sure that this was successful, it seems to have brought us good fortune, for we are deeply in need of your protection and aid."

Haldir considered this for a while. "These are strange times, indeed, Boromir of Gondor, if that is in truth who you are. The Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel will judge whether you are friend or foe. But your company is in need of rest. We shall stay here tonight, high in the trees. In the morning, we will take you to the Lord and Lady. You must go blindfolded, all of you, for strangers are not permitted to see the path."

"You said you knew me!" Picard objected.

"Yes, Mithrandir, but I am not yet certain that you, or any of your companions, are who you appear to be. You shall go blindfolded, or you shall not go at all."

Brooke looked up at Haldir. "We shall go blindfolded. We have nothing to fear from you, or your Lord and Lady. We mean no harm to you or to the Golden Wood."

"That shall be seen, Boromir of Gondor. Now, let us climb, for we shall be safer in the trees." A rope ladder descended from a tree that towered high above their heads. Another came down from a tree nearby. Haldir turned to Brooke. "You and the Hobbits shall stay with us. The others shall stay in the next tree, with two of my kindred to watch them. We shall send messengers to the Lady Galadriel, and they shall bear Aragorn to her."

Brooke nodded. "Thank you … you didn't tell us your name," she pointed out, though she knew it well.

"Haldir," the Elf replied, and started up the ladder.

Slowly, Brooke got to her feet and made her way over to the ladder. Using her arms and left leg, she was able to climb steadily, allowing her right leg to dangle beneath her.

Haldir noticed. "You're injured," he realized as he pulled her up onto the flet. "Come; we will tend to it."

Brooke shook her head. "Help Gandalf and Legolas first; they are in worse condition than I."

"They will be cared for," Haldir assured her as the others began to climb up. He removed the armor and clothing around Brooke's lower leg, and his face grew grave. "What happened?" he asked.

"Something heavy fell on it." It was a lame explanation, but she didn't have the energy for anything more complicated.

"_Very_ heavy," noted Dr. Crusher, who had just come up. "It looks like your armor kept the bleeding down, or you'd be dead by now, but it also kept us from seeing how badly you were hurt. I never should have let you walk on it at all."

"Yeah. You definitely had a choice there," Brooke observed. Sitting up a little more, she forced herself to look. Her entire lower leg was a bruised shade of purple, smeared with dried blood. In a few places, fragments of bone had broken the skin. Brooke lay back, her head spinning.

"My kindred and I will tend to this," Haldir said firmly. "Take some rest, both of you."

If Dr. Crusher had an answer to that, Brooke didn't hear it. She had fallen fast asleep, the stars of Lorien appearing overhead and the creatures of the night beginning to sing their songs. At last, safe in the Golden Wood, she found rest.

* * *

><p>Haldir woke them with the sun, but Brooke felt amazingly refreshed. The Elves had expertly bandaged and splinted her leg, and the once sharp pain had been dulled to a steady throb. As she climbed down the ladder from the flet, she tested her weight on it lightly. She could even walk on it, she realized. She turned to the Elves. "Hannon le." A few of the Elves looked at her strangely, but said nothing as the others climbed down. They would assume it was something she had learned in Rivendell.<p>

After a light breakfast, they set out. One of the Elves was carrying Troi, who was still acting convincingly as if she was under a spell. Picard had wisely decided to leave the talking to Brooke – for the moment, at least. Riker's body was gone; the Elves had taken it, as they had said, to the Lord and Lady of the realm.

Before long, Haldir stopped beside the river. "Here we will cross, but in these times we do not build bridges." He called across the river, and an Elf stepped into view. Haldir threw him one end of a long, silver rope. They pulled the rope taut, and each fastened the end about a tree. To everyone else's surprise, but Brooke's absolute delight, Haldir walked lightly along the rope to the other side and back again.

"You have _got_ to be kidding," Wesley said, shaking his head. "No way."

The Elf who was carrying Troi leapt lightly up onto the rope and crossed easily. Data followed, and then, much to Haldir's surprise, Worf did the same. Brooke couldn't help smiling at the bewildered look on the Elf's face. _This_ was a Dwarf?

Before anyone could object, Brooke stepped eagerly up onto the rope, but had barely taken two steps when her right leg gave way beneath her, and she lost her balance. Into the river she fell, but managed to grab the rope, and so was not swept away by the current. Haldir held out his hand to help her back to shore.

"That was rather foolish, Boromir," he told Brooke, who was shivering with cold from the river. "We will fasten two more ropes, and using these, you and your companions will be able to cross." He and the other Elf did so, one rope waist-high, the other shoulder-high.

Brooke got to her feet, ready to try again. Taking hold of both ropes, she started across the river. This time, she crossed easily. Picard came next, almost as quickly. Wesley followed, hesitantly, as if the rope would break at any second. Brooke realized her obvious advantage. She knew the strength of these ropes, knew they would hold. She had used them to climb down cliffs in her mind, and they had always held.

After Wesley was safely across, Dr. Crusher followed, looking down at the water nervously. How cold was it? How deep? How strong? Doubt played on her face even as she stepped onto the safety of the riverbank.

Just as Brooke was about to suggest that someone return to help Geordi, Haldir helped him find the rope, and he started across easily. He reached the other side with surprising speed. Haldir then followed, once again using only the first rope.

"You have now entered the Naith of Lorien," he said solemnly. "Here I will blindfold you, as agreed. Have no fear; the paths are straight and smooth, and I shall lead you well."

"Very well," Picard agreed, trying desperately to sound as if he was still the one in charge. Brooke heard a low growl behind her as an Elf bound a cloth about her eyes; Worf was not pleased. She heard Geordi chuckle softly at the pointlessness of the ritual; he, at least, was not upset in the least.

Thus they set off along the path, which was, as Haldir had said, remarkably straight and smooth. The sun was warm overhead, and Brooke could already feel her clothes drying. After several hours, they stopped for lunch, some bread and fruit. Then they continued on, and kept pressing forward until Brooke could no longer feel the sun on her face. Yet even at their pace, with her injured leg, she felt none of the weariness of their previous journeys. Here, in Lothlorien, all of that was forgotten.

But as the day wore to an end, she could hear the others slowing behind her. She had been walking quite easily for some time, guided only by an occasional word from Haldir. His light steps barely made any sound on the path, but it was not so for the others. Brooke could hear her own steps, uneven but steady. Behind her came Data, his stride constant and quick. Beyond that, Brooke could distinguish no one, though the steps were slow, and an occasional growl revealed that Worf was nearby.

Finally, Haldir bade them stop and at last unblindfolded them. They stood at the base of a large tree. Around it wove a flight of stairs, rising steadily upwards as it curved around the tree. Brooke smiled. A favor from Q at last. The book had described the way up as a broad ladder. This would be at least a little easier.

Three Elves rested at the base of the tree, robed in white. They rose in greeting, and one of them spoke. "The Lady is waiting for you."

Brooke shot a confused look at Haldir, who answered with an equally surprised expression. Only the Lady? Why not Celeborn, as well?

The others, however, had no reason to find this disturbing. Led by Haldir, they started to climb. Brooke started out beside him at the front, but, as they climbed, her leg began to ache, as if all the pain she had been spared during their walk that day was coming back to haunt her. Still, she resisted Data's offer to carry her, as well as Wesley's to let her lean on him, and used the railing instead to help her climb.

After these initial offers, no one made the slightest suggestion to help her, or that they slow down. Brooke fell farther and farther behind as the steps wound onward. Pain coursed through her right leg as she shifted her weight from her left to the railing and back again. Still, no one turned to help.

It was Haldir who at last turned back, calling to the others to continue as he descended the stairs. "I had not realized you had fallen so far behind," the Elf explained. "Come. There is no need for such haste. Rest a while."

Brooke accepted the invitation gratefully and collapsed onto a stair. "I'll be all right," she assured him. "I just need a moment."

Haldir nodded. "It is a difficult climb even for those who are not injured, if they are unaccustomed to such things."

Brooke leaned back, gazing at the stars that now shone overhead through the treetops. "In Moria, we climbed stairs such as these – and worse than these – without end. But in Moria, we had need of haste. But we weren't fast enough…" The memory of the battle washed over her. She had forgotten such things during their walk, entranced by simply being in the Golden Wood. Now, reality rushed back at her like a wave. Riker was dead. There was no escaping that, even here.

"Do not speak of such things," Haldir advised. "Your tale should be told first to the Lady, though I wonder that the Lord Celeborn is not there, as well."

Brooke nodded. "I hope nothing is amiss."

"As do I," the Elf agreed.

After a moment, Brooke got slowly to her feet. Her leg still hurt terribly, but that would not change. Together, she and Haldir started up the steps. At last, Brooke allowed him to help, and he half-carried her around the last curve.

The stairs ended, and they entered a house built into the very branches of the tree. The walls were silver, and a roof of gold was above them. Brooke glanced at the rest of the Fellowship, only to find that they were staring as if entranced.

Brooke looked where they were staring, and, if not for her leg, would have jumped in surprise. There sat Galadriel, and yet not Galadriel. It was Guinan, clothed in white and seated on a chair across from them. "Thank you, Haldir," she nodded. "You may go now."

Haldir bowed and left, but not without a glance at the empty chair beside Guinan. Where was Celeborn?

"Welcome, everyone," Guinan said once Haldir was gone. "Now, will someone _please _tell me what is going on?"

But before Brooke could utter one word of explanation, yet another figure appeared beside Guinan. He wore long, silver robes, and his hair, now silver, ran long down his back. Like Guinan, he now had pointed ears. A smirk crossed his face, and a light was dancing in his eyes. "Hello, Honey," he crooned in a fake, syrupy voice. "Did you miss me?"


	8. A Thief in the Night

**Disclaimer: **Surprise! It's ... not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<br>****A Thief in the Night**

"Q!" They all shouted at once. Brooke's mind raced with questions. How long had they been there? Q obviously knew everything about this world and could thus put together a fairly convincing act as Celeborn if he wanted to, but how much did Guinan know? Would Haldir figure out that his lord and lady weren't who they said they were? Or would they kill each other before he had the chance?

But before Brooke could decide which question to ask first, Q cocked his head as if listening for something. "Do I hear an echo?" he asked, theatrically cupping a hand about his pointed ear. "Why, yes, I do. In fact, I hear eight. But we seem to be missing one voice. Where, oh where, is Aragorn?"

Before he had even finished, Picard was striding forward. "Q, this is enough! Enough of your little game. Call it off now!"

"Or you'll do what?" Q laughed.

"Or we shall stay here in these woods and provide you with no further amusement."

All of Brooke's questions fled her mind at the thought. "You can't do that! The Orcs are following us from Moria, and the Uruk-Hai are on their way from Isengard! If we stay here long enough, the Nazgul will come after us, too, not to mention the rest of Sauron's army once Gondor falls!"

Guinan stared at the teenager as if she were speaking a foreign language. "Brooke, what are you talking about?"

Brooke looked up. "You don't have a clue what's going on, do you."

"I appeared here in this tree just as some people were bringing me Commander Riker's body."

"Ah, what a pleasant welcome," Q remarked. Picard looked murderous, but Q sat down calmly in his chair. "Oh, come now, Boromir," he grinned. "Do explain to dear Galadriel what is going on." He snapped his fingers, and eight more chairs appeared.

The others remained standing defiantly, but Brooke took a seat immediately, pulling one of the other chairs in front of her and resting her leg on it; the others certainly weren't going to use it. "We're in Middle-Earth," she explained. "This is Lothlorien. You and Q are the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, the rulers of this land. You're Elves."

Guinan nodded slowly. "Go on."

"The eight of us, along with Commander Riker, made up the Fellowship of the Ring," Brooke continued. "We're on a quest to destroy the Ring that Frodo – Wesley – carries. We can only do that in Mount Doom, in the heart of Mordor. Suffices to say, that's a long way away, south and east.

"We set out from Rivendell, which is north and west, across the mountains. First we tried to go over the mountains by way of the Pass of Caradhras, but the storms proved too fierce, and our supplies were running low. So when the pass over the mountains failed, we went under them."

"At your suggestion," Picard added.

Brooke nodded. "Fair enough. At my suggestion, we took the underground road through the Mines of Moria, an ancient Dwarf kingdom beneath the mountains. Two nights ago, we stopped for a rest in the city of Dwarrowdelf, but we were attacked by Orcs. We made a stand in the Chamber of Mazarbul, but Commander Riker was killed. Counselor Troi and the Captain were knocked unconscious."

"So you are capable of using our real names," Picard pointed out. Brooke clenched her teeth but decided to let that one go.

"Is that where you were injured, as well?" Guinan asked.

Brooke nodded. "Yes, but, fortunately, I was still conscious. We fled down the stairs to the Bridge of Khazad-dum. Suffices to say, we got out alive."

"Suffices to say?" Picard pressed. "What actually happened? Did the Balrog come?"

"Name him not," Brooke said quietly as a pain like fire itself coursed through her left arm at the very mention of the demon.

"Well, if you're not going to tell him, I will," Q volunteered. "There stood the Fellowship on the far side of the Bridge of Khazad-dum. The demon advanced, its flames roaring, its whip cracking. Boromir knew she was their only chance. Taking Gandalf's sword and staff, back she ran along the bridge. The demon lunged forward to confront her. She stood defiantly in its path, daring it to try to pass. It drew its flaming sword. The blow knocked Glamdring from the hand of the brave defender, but still she stood firm. Crying out against the darkness itself, she smote the bridge with the staff. The staff broke asunder, but the bridge cracked, and the demon plunged into the darkness of the abyss below. And thus shall they always tell of the Battle of Boromir and the Balrog," Q finished with a smirk.

Brooke laughed, a loud, long laugh. It felt good to laugh. She had saved them. Maybe it wasn't quite the stuff of legends, but Q had made it sound as if it were. "The Battle of Boromir and the Balrog," she repeated, allowing the memory to wash through her like a wave, though the thought made her arm burn. "It _does _have a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Picard scoffed. "You're as bad as he is. Well, Q, you'll get no such further pleasure out of us. We're through with your little game."

"Fine; sit here and do nothing," Q offered. "I'll have plenty of fun watching the Uruk-Hai and the Nazgul come and kill you all."

"He's not bluffing," Brooke insisted. "They're going to come for us, and even the power of the Elves can't protect Lothlorien forever."

"My decision is made, Brooke," Picard said firmly.

"You're insane!" Brooke protested. She looked to Q for help, but saw only amusement in his eyes. She turned to Guinan, but Guinan was watching Picard. Brooke looked back to Q, and the entity met her gaze. She nodded slightly, so as not to alert the others. She knew what she had to do.

Brooke turned to Picard. "Captain, since I did save your lives back in Moria, I believe you owe me something, at least."

"We are not continuing," Picard said stubbornly.

"I wasn't referring to that. I'm asking you to send Commander Riker's body down the Anduin in a boat of Lorien. Consider it a useless gesture if you will, but I want the people of Gondor to know the fate of their king."

"Even though he's not even their king yet?" Q asked.

"Not in name, but he was our king nonetheless. And they deserve to know that no aid will be coming to them from elsewhere. My brother Faramir will interpret it rightly."

"You brother?" Guinan asked.

"Boromir's brother."

Guinan turned to Picard. "It doesn't seem like an unreasonable request, Captain."

Picard nodded. "I see no harm in it. Make it so." He turned to leave, and the others followed. At last, Brooke was left alone with Q.

"Why such an odd request?" Q asked, genuinely curious.

"It changed the subject. And it made enough sense for them to buy it."

"You really don't care how Faramir interprets it, do you."

Brooke shook her head. "It won't change anything. They're not expecting help from elsewhere." She got up slowly, wincing at the pain in her leg. "Hey, Celeborn, since I'm going to do you a favor by getting you little game started again, you mind doing me one and speeding up the healing magic of Lorien?"

Q laughed, and Brooke smiled at the sound. "I am grateful for your effort, Boromir, though I doubt you are doing it for the sake of my amusement. I will do as you ask, and I also have an even bigger favor in store for you … one that I shan't reveal until the time is right." Q snapped his fingers, and the pain was gone. All that remained was a dull throbbing ache.

Brooke turned to go. "Hannon le, Celeborn."

Q smiled. "Lle creoso, Boromir. And good luck."

Brooke headed down the stairs with much more ease than during the climb up. At the bottom, Haldir waited with the other Elves. Brooke caught his gaze, and the Elf read the message easily. They needed to talk. Motioning to his companions to stay, he followed her along the path.

"What is it, Boromir?" he asked once they were out of earshot.

"I need your help, Haldir. All of Middle-Earth needs your help." She looked around. Nothing. "Our Fellowship set out from Rivendell on a Quest, Haldir. The Halfling Frodo bears the One Ring of Power forged by the Dark Lord in the fires of Mount Doom. Our intent was to take it to Mordor and destroy it.

"Gandalf, I believe, has gone mad with grief over Aragorn's death. He insists that the Ring will be safe here and that here we shall stay. But war is coming, Haldir, and powerful though Lorien may be, it will not withstand the full united strength of both Mordor and Isengard. For Saruman, too, now searches for the Ring. He is breeding an army, and they will come for us. We must leave this land, and quickly, but Gandalf does not understand."

Haldir studied her for a moment, taking everything in. "There is no lie in your eyes, Boromir of Gondor. You have not told me all, but I believe you have revealed all that is necessary. What would you have me do?"

"It's very simple, really," Brooke said quietly. "I need you not to interfere."

* * *

><p>The night was beautiful and starry. Elves lined the banks of the Anduin, some bearing torches. The Fellowship stood together, with Guinan on the end near Picard. Brooke stood on the other end, and beside her stood Q, whom the others were tolerating for the sake of not appearing even more suspicious than they already had.<p>

All was silent. The Elves had sung a song of mourning, and now stood quietly. Troi was weeping silently.

It was too much silence for Q, who was already fidgeting. The entity apparently couldn't stay still for more than ten minutes. And this had been going on for hours.

He nudged Brooke. "Do something."

Brooke looked up; she had been as hypnotized as the others. "Like what?"

"A song. A dance. Juggle. I don't care. This is ridiculous. We've been standing here for hours! It's almost dawn!"

Brooke glared. "Why do you care? You don't sleep."

Q cracked a smile. "Miss dear Aragorn, do we?"

Brooke's gaze strayed to Troi, who knelt beside the boat that held Riker's body, held against the current by an Elf. Tears streamed down her face. Slowly, Brooke waded out to her side. She placed a hand on Riker's forehead and took his hand in the other.

"Farewell, my king," she said softly, but loudly enough for the others to hear. "As your body goes to rest in the land of your forebears, may your spirit find peace in the Halls of Mandos." She released his hand, quietly slipping the Ring of Barahir from his finger. Then, as Q nodded to the Elf to release the boat, Brooke began the only song she could think of.

_Gondor, Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!  
><em>_West wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree  
><em>_Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.  
><em>_O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!  
><em>_O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,  
><em>_Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?_

Brooke's voice faded into tears as Riker's body floated out of sight. Lead them home, he had said. Lead them home. And she would. She would find a way. Somehow, she would find a way.

The Elves slowly began to leave. Brooke returned to the shore, stopping only to slip the Ring of Barahir into Troi's hand. Troi looked up, but Brooke was already walking away. If she stayed long enough, Brooke knew, Troi might sense what she was planning to do. And she didn't want to see how that would play out.

* * *

><p><em>Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,<br>__Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?_

Brooke woke with a start, half-expecting to see someone standing over her, singing. But it had only been a dream, and she almost wished the dream had continued. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to set in the West. The time was drawing near. But she still had time. Time enough to back down. Or time to strengthen her resolve.

She got up slowly and made her way along the path. She knew exactly where she was going, without so much as a thought. She had walked this path before, in countless daydreams. Soon, she came to a flight of stairs. Down they led, into a clearing. A stream ran through it, and there, upon a pedestal carved in the likeness of a tree, stood a shallow, wide basin made of silver. The Mirror of Galadriel.

Water was already in it. Everything was ready. Yet now that she was here, Brooke hesitated. Did she really want to see what the mirror would show her? Yet how could she just turn around and leave? No. She had to know.

Slowly, she stepped forward and peered into the basin. The setting sun and the trees were reflected in its water. Then, slowly, the image faded, and a river came into view. A river on which drifted a single boat. Brooke followed the river with her eyes until it came to Gondor. There stood Minas Tirith, tall and proud, exactly as she had always imagined. Banners were flying on the Pelennor Fields below. Horns were ringing.

High in the Tower of Ecthalion sat a man. His head was bowed with grief, but Brooke knew him nonetheless: Denethor, Steward of Gondor. In one of his hands was the Horn of Gondor, cloven in two. In the other was a Palantir, one of the Seeing Stones of the kings of old. As Brooke gazed at the sphere, it grew steadily larger, until it filled the mirror. Then a red eye appeared. Brooke wanted to scream, to draw back in surprise, to tear her eyes away, but she found she could not. At last, with one strong burst of will, she managed to close her eyes, and felt herself falling back, back into darkness.

She hit the ground and lay there for a moment, breathing hard. Her hands found the Horn of Gondor and clutched it tightly. She opened her eyes. It was unbroken. For now.

"Brooke?" a voice asked. "What are you doing?"

Brooke scrambled to her feet. Guinan. The one person who could stop her plan with but a word to Haldir. Well, besides Q, but he wouldn't. But Guinan…

"I was … I …" Brooke fumbled for a good explanation for a moment before deciding on the truth. "I took a look in your mirror."

Guinan smiled. "I had a look myself earlier today."

Brooke nodded. "I guessed when I saw it was full."

"Haldir told me your plan."

Brooke froze. This was it. Guinan's decision could determine the fate of all Middle-Earth, not to mention the officers of the _Enterprise_. Brooke didn't dare say a word, but waited for Guinan to speak.

Guinan didn't give her an answer immediately. "When I looked in the mirror, it showed me your Fellowship's journey. The version you gave me yesterday hardly did justice to the courage and determination shown by each and every member of your Fellowship, and especially by you, Brooke. Again and again, you have proven that you know this world. You consider it real, and your decisions have been based on that – decisions, Brooke, that have been the best you could make. Because of that decisiveness, that intuition, I have instructed Haldir not only to allow you to carry out your plan, but also to aid you however you may request."

Brooke let out a sigh of relief. She could hardly find anything to say, except, "Thank you. Thank you, Guinan."

"No. Thank _you_, for getting them safely this far. I asked Wesley to meet me here at sunset; he should be coming soon."

"Then you should be going. We don't want Gandalf connecting you to this. Thanks again, Galadriel. Hannon le."

Guinan smiled warmly as she turned to go. "Good luck, Boromir." Slowly, she disappeared into the distance.

* * *

><p>It was dark when Wesley at last approached, but the stars overhead provided enough light. Brooke hid behind a tree at the foot of the stairs. Wesley came down, and passed her, unsuspecting. "Guinan!" he called. "Guinan, where are you?"<p>

Brooke stepped out behind him, her sword drawn. "Hello, Frodo."

Wesley whirled around. "What do you want?" He was trying not to sound afraid, but the sword was dangerously close to his neck.

"What I want is very simple," Brooke answered in a low voice. "Give me the Ring, Frodo, and come with me down the Anduin."

"Are you insane?" Wesley demanded.

"I don't want to hurt you, Frodo," Brooke said softly, moving her sword slowly away from his neck.

Wesley shook his head. "You won't kill me."

Brooke met his gaze. "I don't have to."

At that moment, an arrow, expertly aimed, flew past Wesley, barely missing his head. Wesley turned to see where it had come from, and Brooke struck his head with the hilt of her sword. The Ringbearer crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Brooke knelt by Wesley and checked his breathing and pulse. Satisfied, she sheathed her sword. Then she removed the chain that held the Ring from Wesley's neck and placed it around her own, tucking the Ring under her shirt. Then she looked up. "Thank you, Haldir. You made that much easier."

Haldir stepped out of the shadows. "Forgive me, Boromir."

"For what?" Brooke asked.

"When you told me your plan, Boromir, I doubted you. I did not believe it wise to entrust the Ring of Power to one of the race of Men. But the Lady Galadriel believes you are strong enough, and that is enough for me. Forgive me."

Brooke shook her head. "There is nothing to forgive, my friend. You are right to doubt. After all, the race of Men had our chance to destroy the Ring, and failed. But I am not Isildur."

Haldir smiled. "No. No, you are not. Whether that difference is for good or ill will be seen, Boromir, son of Denethor. For now, I trust to the judgment of my Lady. Come. You should be on your way before he wakes."

Brooke nodded. Together, they carried Wesley to the River, where Guinan and Q waited for them, surprisingly standing together. Beside them was a boat, large enough for her and Wesley. In the back was a pack of supplies. Haldir placed Wesley in the boat, bowed to Q and Guinan, and left.

Immediately, the two moved to different sides of the boat. "Hello, Brooke," Guinan said kindly. "Q has informed me that, in the book, Galadriel gives parting gifts to the Fellowship. This is for Wesley." She held out what Brooke recognized as a mithril coat. "Q tells me he neglected to give him this earlier."

"He did quite well without it," Q pointed out.

"Still, he may need it." She handed the coat to Brooke, who placed it in the boat. "And for both of you." She fastened a cloak around Brooke's neck. Q tossed the other into the boat on top of Wesley.

"Here, catch!" Q called, tossing a bright object into the air.

Brooke grinned as she reached up to catch it. "The Phial of Galadriel," she nodded, and tucked it into a pocket. "Thanks, Celeborn."

"Is there anything else you would ask for?" Guinan asked, trying to ignore Q.

Brooke thought for a moment. "Legolas may sense that something is amiss. Can you block her telepathically, Celeborn, until morning? They'll need a good rest before following me."

Q nodded. "Of course."

She turned to Guinan. "And will you assure Gandalf that I wouldn't kill Frodo? I don't need Sam fretting about that."

Guinan nodded. "I'll do that, Brooke."

Brooke smiled and got into the boat. "Thank you." Q handed her a pair of oars. She set one alongside Wesley and used the other to push off from shore. "Namarië," she called softly.

"Namarië," Q called back, and waved playfully until Brooke was out of sight. Then he turned to Guinan, who was still ignoring him. "The game … has begun again."


	9. Some Larger Way

**Disclaimer: **I only own this in a theoretical alternate universe in which I wrote both _Star Trek_ and _Lord of the Rings_. In this universe – and the majority of universes, I would imagine – I own nothing.

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<br>****Some Larger Way**

The night was calm. The stars were pale overhead now that Lothlorien was behind her. Brooke wrapped her cloak tighter and picked up a paddle. She had barely touched it since pushing off from shore; the current had pulled the boat swiftly away from Lorien. But they would need to go faster. Once the others learned what she had done, the decision would be quick. She had to put as much distance between them as she could.

Not that she wanted to outrun them forever – just until they were too far away to safely return to Lothlorien. She couldn't allow Picard and his crew to seek shelter there, as much as she had wanted to stay, just a little longer. That was too easy. Too easy a decision. Picard saw it as defying Q, but Brooke was convinced he simply didn't want any more of his officers, his friends, to die. But they would, all of them, if they stayed. Lothlorien had withstood a number of attacks in the books, but once the rest of Middle-Earth fell, it was only a matter of time.

Time. Time was, of course, their most pressing concern. Time to outrun the Uruk-Hai. Time to keep Sauron from noticing them. Did they have that time?

Brooke dug her paddle into the water. To her surprise, the boat turned sharply to one side. Startled, she tried again, and again, but succeeded only in turning the boat farther in the wrong direction until, at last, she and Wesley were drifting backwards down the Anduin River.

It was getting darker. Clouds covered the stars. Brooke paddled as hard as she could, but the river was getting stronger. "Frodo!" she called loudly, and used her paddle to splash water on his face. "Frodo! Frodo, wake up!"

At last, Wesley opened his eyes. "What in the world?"

"I kidnapped you. We're on the Anduin River," Brooke explained. "Now help me turn this boat around."

"Why did—"

"Frodo, I promise I will tell you everything you want to know, as soon as this boat is going the right way!"

Wesley couldn't hide a satisfied smile as he took the other paddle and soon had the boat facing the right direction. "You don't know what you're doing, do you?"

"Haven't got a clue. That's why you're here."

"That's not the only reason."

"You're right," Brooke admitted. "If it were just me, the others might let me go. I couldn't take that chance, Frodo. They'll come after you."

"And we'll go right back. The Captain won't let you get away with this, Brooke."

"Your precious Captain doesn't have a choice any more, Frodo. If he won't see this Quest through, then Gondor will see it done."

Even in the now-dim light, understanding shone in Wesley's face. "You took the Ring."

"I can't trust you to help me. If something happens—"

"Like what?"

"Frodo, there is an army of Uruk-Hai on its way from Isengard, getting closer even as we speak. If they catch us, it's you they're after. They have orders to bring back the Halflings, alive. They won't come after me alone."

"You—you'd leave me to die?"

"No. I'd leave you to be captured, and only as a last resort, if we couldn't escape together. But there's a chance of that."

Wesley put down the paddle and crossed his arms. "I wouldn't have expected that, Brooke – not even from you."

"_Not even from you_? You don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"You're a coward. You're afraid of what Q will do to us if we don't go along with his little game."

"Don't you understand _yet_? Didn't you learn anything from Moria? He doesn't have to _do_ anything! All he has to do is sit back and let the Orcs and the Uruk-Hai and the Nazgul kill us all! And who's not afraid of that?"

"I'm not," Wesley said stubbornly.

"I suppose that's why you sounded so terrified when you asked if I'd leave you here to die, Frodo. Even if you aren't scared of death, there are worse fates. You don't know the terror of the Dark Tower of Barad-dur. You don't know that horrors that would await you there, Frodo Baggins, should you be taken."

"And you do?" Wesley shot back.

Brooke stared back at him in surprise. For a moment, she had lost herself in this world, staring off towards the East. "No," she admitted quietly. "No, Frodo, I'm only beginning to understand just how terrifying, how wonderful, how real all of this is."

"But it isn't real, Brooke. It's all a part of Q's little fantasy."

"It's as real as Q has made it, Frodo. Do you remember in Rivendell, when Elrond told us, 'Let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall'? I'm starting to see it, Frodo. The Watcher in the Water. The battle in Moria. The Balrog. Even as I say that, Frodo, my arm feels like it's on fire. Those moments were more real to me than they ever were on the holodeck, or even in my mind. This is _real_."

"No," Wesley insisted. "It's all in your head."

"Is it all in my head that Commander Riker is dead?" Brooke demanded. "Because that seemed pretty real to me! Those tears that Counselor Troi shed were as real as any others. What's the difference?"

Wesley didn't answer. He turned the other way, his face hidden. At last, Brooke understood. "Of course. That's it, isn't it? If this is real, there is no difference. If this is real, he _is_ dead, and any one of us could die. It's so much easier, so much more comforting, to believe that this is all a fantasy, a dream – that, when it's all over, we'll wake up on the _Enterprise_, safe and sound, regardless of what's happened to us here. Is that what you think is going to happen? Is that what Gandalf thinks is going to happen?"

Wesley didn't answer, which was answer enough. So that was it. Picard didn't think Q would _let_ them all die. He didn't think Q would play it out to the end. But she knew better. In Moria, even as she had screamed at Q to stop the game, she had known that he wouldn't. He had let the game continue, and she had known he would, because that's what she would have done. Picard didn't – perhaps _couldn't_ – see it that way.

"Frodo," she said quietly. "Your Captain may have every reason to think he's right. But, Frodo ... when I looked in the mirror that Galadriel asked you to come and see, I saw a Dark Lord as real as any threat you and the others have ever faced. Your Captain thinks he can stop this by ignoring it, by refusing to participate, because he doesn't believe it's real. But this won't go away. This—" She grasped the Ring around her neck. "_This _won't just go away if we ignore It. _It_ is real. And that's why—" She slipped the chain off her neck. "That's why it should be yours."

Wesley looked up in surprise. "I don't understand."

"Frodo, this is all real to me. I feel – right now – Its power, calling to me, beckoning me to use it. Perhaps you will be protected, Wesley, for the same reason as Frodo, because of your innocence, your nature. Or maybe you'll be protected because you don't even believe in Its power." She shook her head. "I don't understand it, either. By all reason I know, I should keep It. And I want to. Believe me, right now, more than anything else I have ever wanted, I _want_ to keep It. But you were meant to have It, as surely as Frodo was." She held out the Ring in a trembling hand. "Take It, Frodo. Take It, before I can no longer give It up."

Without a word, Wesley reached out and took the Ring. Brooke immediately drew her hand back, as if afraid she might try to resist, try to grab the Ring back. "Thank you, Frodo," she said quietly. "You don't know what this means, but, maybe later, we will both understand."

Wesley nodded slowly as he put the Ring around his neck. Picking up a paddle, he dug it into the water, then switched it to the other side and repeated the motion. "It's simple, really, once you get the hang of it. Try it, Boromir."

A smile broke out on Brooke's face. "You called me Boromir."

Wesley smiled, a sad smile; he was still crying a little. "So did Commander Riker."

Brooke nodded. "I wish I could promise you nothing will happen – to you or the others. But I can't. I can't tell you what will happen, what we'll have to face. The Uruk-Hai may catch us. Gollum might find an opportunity to attack. The Nazgul may come looking for us. But whatever we have to deal with, I promise you, Frodo, you are under my protection."

Wesley shook his head. "You don't fool me, Brooke, even if you fool yourself. On the holodeck, you took the Ring and would have left me to be killed. You brought me with you to give the Uruk-Hai a distraction so you could escape. How can I expect your protection? How can I trust you?"

"I just gave you the Ring!"

"And you'll have every opportunity to take it back! All you have to do is threaten me and knock me out again."

"Wesley, what do I have to say? What must I do to convince you?"

Wesley lay down his paddle. "Take us back to Lothlorien."

"I can't do that."

"And I can't help you. I'm an officer of the starship _Enterprise_. My duty is to Starfleet, not some re-creation of a fantasy world. I am _not_ Frodo Baggins! It is _not _my job to destroy the Ring!" He pulled the chain from his neck again. "I will not be Q's pawn – or yours!" With that, he flung the Ring into the River.

Brooke didn't stop to think. She couldn't. She jumped out of the boat and grabbed the Ring before it could sink. Suddenly, she felt two hands about her throat, wet and cold, with practiced fingers. Gollum. One hand went to her arm, and followed it to the hand that grasped the Ring. Brooke struggled to hold on, but Gollum was quickly forcing her farther underwater. She couldn't breathe. It was only a matter of time before…

"Let her go, Gollum!" came a voice she barely heard. Wesley. Her head slowly came up out of the water. Wesley had drawn Sting, and was in the water beside them. The blade was pressed against Gollum's throat. Slowly, the hands released her.

Immediately, Brooke started thrashing, desperately trying to stay above the water while still clutching the Ring. At last, her hands found a rock, and she clung to that, shivering. Wesley swam up alongside her. "Gollum?" she asked.

Wesley shook his head. "He got away. But the boat's on shore a little way downriver. It just … pulled ashore by itself."

Brooke coughed. "The boats of Lorien. Elvish. Should've known."

"Like I should've known that Gollum would come after the Ring if I threw It in the water?"

Brooke managed a smile. "Yeah, like that. But why do you care?"

"Because I don't want to stay here forever, or until your Uruk-Hai or whatever get around to killing us. I want to get back to the _Enterprise_. And that," he sighed, "will only happen if we destroy this stupid Ring."

Brooke laughed. "Would you make up your mind, Frodo? Are you going to help me or not?"

"I'm a Starfleet officer—"

"—whose Captain's judgment is impaired because of the death of his First Officer, his friend. He won't listen to reason, Wesley. Will you? Are you going to follow orders blindly, or are you going to help me save what's left of this Fellowship?" She held out the Ring. "What'll it be, Wesley?"

Wesley hesitated for a moment, then took the Ring again. "Don't you mean 'Frodo'?"

Brooke grinned. "Well, Frodo, if we're through playing Hot Potato with the Ring of Power, I suggest we get to shore and get moving."

Wesley nodded. "Stay here; I'll bring the boat out."

Brooke smiled as she watched Wesley swim out to the shore. "So it begins."


	10. The Council of Galadriel

**Disclaimer:** It's mine. My own. My preciousssss . . . Well, all except for the parts that are Gene Roddenberry's . . . and the parts that are J.R.R. Tolkien's. Which covers pretty much everything.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<br>****The Council of Galadriel**

Guinan stood alone by the shore of the Anduin, staring off down the river. The sun should have been rising, but, instead, the sky was growing only slightly lighter. A storm was brewing.

She sighed. What had things come to? She was working with Q! With _Q_! And with a girl who reminded her so much of him. Arrogant. Impulsive. But, until now, Brooke had allowed the Captain to make the final decisions, as much as she may have disagreed with him. Until now…

"Thinking deep thoughts, 'Guinan'?" came Q's mocking voice. She didn't answer. "Lovely day," Q remarked, and, without turning, she knew the smug grin that crossed his face.

"This weather – you caused it," Guinan accused, finally turning and acknowledging his presence; he had been standing there for quite some time.

Q put on his most pathetically sheepish look. "Moi? Oh, come now, why is everything always my fault?"

The question didn't really deserve the dignity of an answer, but she gave one, anyway. "Maybe because you brought us here against our will and this whole world is your creation."

"Not mine. Tolkien's. A genius as far as humans are concerned. _He_ had imagination. How many humans could conjure all this up in their mind, without the use of a holodeck? That's true imagination, true creativity."

"And I'm supposed to believe that's why you chose it?"

"No," Q admitted. "I chose it because it's Brooke's area of expertise. She knows this world like – like the back of her hand, as the expression goes. But, really, how many people actually know all the little lines and veins running along the backs of their hands? They're so much more likely to know the palm of their hand. It's the back that'll catch them by surprise, if they look closely enough."

Guinan scoffed. "You don't think she can do it?"

"I never said that. She's done quite well so far. She brought the Fellowship — most of them, anyways — safely from Rivendell to Lothlorien, no thanks to them."

"Now, that's unfair. Captain Picard started the fire that allowed them to see on the way to Moria, and his staff provided the light in the mines. Data and Riker saved her from the Watcher in the Water. Data shot the troll and pulled her off the bridge in time."

"But neither the Balrog nor the troll would have appeared had it not been for Data's little blunder at the start of their trip."

"Which you were responsible for."

"Utter nonsense. I simply put him on equal footing with the others. And Picard would never have known the words to light the fire without Brooke. Nor would he have known his staff _could_ light up. Without the others, the road through Moria would have been her first choice, and she could have avoided the wolves altogether, thus avoiding the Watcher in the Water. All in all, they've been an incredible burden to her, not to mention a terrible nuisance."

"She doesn't seem to agree with you, Q."

"Ridiculous. Of course she does."

Guinan shook her head. "Then why does she want them to follow her? Why not just take the Ring and go? No answer, Q? She knows she can't. She needs them as much as they need her. If she has no connection to the real world, she will lose herself in this fantasy of yours. And some part of her, perhaps hidden very deep, doesn't want that to happen."

Q grinned. "Not yet. But you're forgetting something else – the reason they can't stay here in the first place. Unless they follow her, they'll be slaughtered, and, as much of a nuisance as they've been, she can't stand to let them commit mass suicide. And, lucky for her, neither can you." Then he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

Guinan sighed. It was past dawn. She had stalled long enough. Picard needed to know what had happened.

Slowly, she made her way over to where she knew she would find him. Kneeling down, she shook him gently by the shoulder. "Captain. Captain, wake up."

Picard's eyes opened. "Guinan. What is it? Is everything all right?"

"You might want to get your people together, Captain," Guinan said quietly. "We need to talk."

* * *

><p>Shortly, they were all there, except, of course, for Brooke and Wesley. Dr. Crusher was understandably upset. "Guinan, what's going on? Where's Wesley?"<p>

"Sometime last night," Guinan began calmly, "Brooke took one of our boats and left Lothlorien."

"Wesley's with her," Troi added. "At least, he's not here, so it's a safe guess he's with her.

Dr. Crusher shook her head. "He would never—"

"Go with her of his own free will," Picard finished. "Which leaves us to assume that she took him by force." He turned to Troi. "Opinion, Counselor: Will she harm Wesley?"

"I don't believe so, Sir. She's rash and impulsive, but not uncontrolled; she has no reason to hurt him. I don't believe Wesley is in any danger from her."

"From her?"

It was Data who answered. "She has mentioned several creatures who are pursuing the Ring. Uruk-Hai seemed to be her present concern."

"And if they attack?" Dr. Crusher asked.

"I think she'd take the Ring and make a run for it," Geordi offered.

Picard shook his head. "Brooke may be many things, but I don't believe a coward is one of them."

"I do not believe that is what Lieutenant LaForge wished to imply," Data pointed out. "Of the two of them, Brooke knows this world far better than Wesley. She knows the way to Mordor. Given the choice between the two of them to continue the journey alone, Brooke would be the logical choice, and it is reasonable to assume that she would act on this knowledge."

"And leave Wesley to die?" Troi asked. "I don't think she would, Data."

"Nevertheless, we should not ignore the possibility."

"Agreed," Picard nodded. "Opinions."

"We have to go after them; they're in danger," Dr. Crusher replied immediately.

"And then what? Bring them back? Persuade Brooke to give up this Quest? Throw her in the brig?"

"There is no brig here, Captain," Data pointed out.

"I'm well aware of that, Mr. Data. Would it be possible to find another way to hold her here?"

Troi shook her head. "That would only build suspicion among the Elves. They don't trust us. If we were to force her to remain, who knows what they'd think?"

"Perhaps if their leader assured them it was for the best…" He turned to Guinan.

"That could be difficult, Captain."

"Why is that?"

"Because I already told them to let her go."

"You _what_?"

"Captain, you know as well as I do that you would not have listened to her. You were sure of your decision to stay here. She knew she had to force your hand. And she has, Captain. She has the Ring, and she's prepared to finish this Quest by herself, if need be, or with Wesley."

"He won't help her," Dr. Crusher insisted.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Guinan advised. "Alone, he may see the reason in her point of view. I did."

"I still don't see—"

"How I could do this? It wasn't easy, Captain. But she knows better than any of us what could happen if you stay here. She insists you would all be killed."

"And you believe her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not? It's clear you don't trust her, but why? Is it because she helped Q?"

"No!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Then why?"

Picard thought for a moment. "It's not because she helped him, Guinan. After all, Data did the same. It's her attitude towards him. She seems comfortable around him. Guinan, he's responsible for her mother's death, and she ignores it. He's responsible for Riker's death, and she ignores that, as well. She _trusts_ Q!"

Guinan smiled softly. "Captain, I think you've mistaken mutual understanding and respect for trust. She knows better than to trust Q."

"And so she should be trusted? Counselor, what do you think?"

Troi sighed. "She can be trusted to do what she believes is right and to do it without hesitation.

"How can kidnapping my son be right?" Dr. Crusher demanded.

Picard looked up. "She took a gamble that it would move us to action. Either way, she wins. If we follow her, we play right into her hand, and, chances are, we will not be able to return here. If we don't follow her, we leave the Quest in her hands, and our lives - or, at the very least, Wesley's - rest on the success or failure of her efforts. Dismissed. Meet back here in ten minutes."

"You already know," Guinan said softly after the others had gone. "You already know what you're going to do." It was starting to rain. The clouds overhead were a dark grey.

"I was hoping you would talk me out of it," Picard admitted.

"I might have been able to, if she had gone alone."

"I can't ignore the fact that Wesley's life is in danger. I've already lost a member of my crew, a good friend. I don't intend to lose another."

"Then it's decided."

"Yes," Picard agreed. "It's decided."

* * *

><p>"Brooke, we should head for shore," Wesley suggested as the storm picked up. "We don't want to be out on the water if lightning strikes."<p>

Brooke nodded. "Let's head for the western bank." Wesley hesitated. "To your right," Brooke added. "We're heading south."

Wesley nodded and tried to turn. But the current was pulling them too strongly. Brooke took up her paddle, as well, but it did no good. It was all they could do to avoid the rocks that now dotted the water.

"It's all right," Brooke said at last. "It's all right, Frodo. Save your strength. Let the River carry us."

Wesley nodded. "Captain Picard will know better than to try to travel in this weather. It'll put more distance between us."

"It's all right; they'll catch us," Brooke assured him. "It'll just take a while longer."

* * *

><p>"After this storm clears, we'll follow them," Picard informed the others. "Guinan, we'll need boats ready, and supplies."<p>

"They'll be ready, Captain."

"I could use another sword."

"I'll take care of that and more. Come. There is something you should see." She led Picard down the path, the path she had followed the night before. "It's a mirror," she explained. "I'm not sure exactly why or how it works, but it shows things … Perhaps things you wish to see. Perhaps things you need to see. Brooke looked without asking, and I am not sure exactly what she saw, but I believe it strengthened her resolve. Do you wish to look?"

"More of Q's teasing, no doubt. Showing us what might happen."

"No, not Q," Guinan smiled. "This magic belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, and to an Elf he created by the name of Galadriel. The choice is yours, Captain."

Slowly, Picard stepped forward and looked over into the mirror. Rain splattered into it, creating ripples. Suddenly, out of the water leapt a flame, burning and crackling. "Brooke, we must go." Data.

Brooke's stubborn voice answered. "And have that thing on our tail? No. This ends here. Now." A bridge appeared, with Brooke making her way back along it, towards a creature that appeared to be made of flame itself. The Balrog. Picard shuddered in spite of himself. No wonder the mere mention of the demon made Brooke cringe.

"You cannot pass!" Brooke shouted. "You cannot pass! I am a Servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor! The Dark Fire will not avail you, Flame of Udun!" Picard could tell that these words had not come from her, but from the wizard who should have been in her place. But what she said next, he knew, somehow, came from the deepest part of Brooke Warrington. "The Dark Fire will not avail you, and neither will anything else! You may take me, but this Fellowship is under my protection! They will survive! _That_ is my victory!"

The demon before her drew its weapon, a huge sword of flame that towered above her. Picard's own sword shone white in the girl's hand. Their weapons met, and the sword was swept from Brooke's grasp. "Go back to the Shadow!" she cried, regaining her balance with Picard's staff. "You cannot pass!" With that, she smote the bridge in front of her. Fire filled the mirror, and then it went black. "For you, Aragorn," he heard Brooke's voice say quietly, and a horn rang in his ears. The Horn of Gondor that Brooke had blown in Rivendell.

Picard looked up. "Thank you, Guinan. I did need to see that. I couldn't take Q's word for what happened. She really was willing to sacrifice herself to save the rest of us."

"Yes," Guinan nodded. "It caught me by surprise, a little, when the mirror showed me. Somehow … I hadn't quite expected it of her."

"Guinan, I appreciate what you and your … mirror … are trying to show me, but this same girl has just kidnapped a member of my crew."

"With the best of intentions."

"Guinan, it's an old saying among my people that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions."

Guinan raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps the road to Mordor is, as well."

* * *

><p>It was well into the afternoon when the storm at last subsided enough to allow them to travel. The others met Guinan and Picard by the shores of the Anduin. Two boats were ready for them there.<p>

"Before you leave, I have some gifts," Guinan said. "These are Elven cloaks. I don't know much about them, but, like everything else here, they probably have their share of magic. In the boats is a good supply of food, mostly what these people call lembas bread. And for each of you, I have a gift."

"For you, Captain Picard," she smiled, holding out a sword and a new staff. "Perhaps you will find there are powers in you that you know not."

"For you, Lieutenant LaForge; I believe you lost this." She handed Geordi his visor, still dripping with water. "Though your memories of Moria are dark, and happiness seems ever farther away, always remember that it is the light of hope that truly gives sight."

"For you, Counselor Troi," Guinan said softly, and held out a silver brooch in the likeness of an eagle, its wings spread wide. In the center was a beautiful green gem. "I hardly understand the significance of this, but I was told it was to be given to Aragorn, as a token of hope. So now it comes to you, who are most in need of hope."

"For you, Lieutenant Worf." She held out a small bottle. In it was a dark liquid. "Miruvor, I believe, or something of the same sort. In any case, it's the closest I could find to prune juice."

"For you, Doctor Crusher." She handed her a bag. "Inside is a plant called athelas; I believe it has some healing virtue. In any case, its fragrance is sweet, and may lift the spirits."

"And for you, Commander Data." She held out a folded piece of paper. "A map of these lands. I'm afraid it can tell you nothing of the people and customs, but perhaps it will help you find your way."

"I have spoken of hope, for hope is the one thing that all of you will need. I wish you the best of luck."

Picard smiled. "Thank you, Guinan." He, Dr. Crusher, and Worf climbed into one of the boats. Data, Geordi, and Troi climbed into the other. "Farewell."

"Farewell," Guinan said with a smile, and watched as they made their way down the river. Hope. What hope did they really have? What good would her words of encouragement do when they found themselves facing Uruk-Hai and Nazgul and whatever else Middle-Earth had in store?

At last, when the Fellowship was out of sight, Guinan whispered, "Namarië." Then she turned away.


	11. Mist and Twilight

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine. Especially when I indulge in some direct quotations. I blame Tolkien. When you give characters such beautiful lines, you're _begging_ fanfic writers to quote you word for word. Really, it would be a crime _not_ to make use of some of these quotes, and a pointless shame to change the wording.

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<br>****Mist and Twilight**

It was late in the afternoon when the storm at last subsided. Brooke and Wesley finally lay down their paddles; they had been forced to stay awake and alert by the current and the rocks. Brooke had learned the hard way the ways of boats, but now felt more comfortable in the current that was bearing them steadily southwards.

At last, she managed to smile. "Look, Frodo." She pointed to the shore. "The trees are thinning. That storm, aside from nearly tearing us apart, cut a day or two off our journey. We're entering the Brown Lands, south of Mirkwood, north of Emin Muil. In eight days, we should reach Rauros, but I believe we can make it fewer. We'll have to travel both night and day. We can take turns sleeping."

"The others—"

"They don't know the river well enough. They won't chance it. Once we reach Sarn Gebir, we'll take the boat ashore and pass the rapids along the portage-way on the western shore. Once we pass the Argonath and reach Amon Hen, we'll let the others catch up with us, if they haven't already. They wouldn't know where to go from there."

Wesley blinked. "Was I supposed to understand any of that?"

Brooke laughed. "No. No, I suppose not. Did you?"

But Wesley didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the River ahead. "Frodo?" Brooke asked. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" Wesley answered instinctively. Then, after a moment, "I … I guess I just realized. This is the same river we sent Commander Riker down."

Brooke nodded. "Yes, the Anduin River flows all the way to the White City."

"The White City?"

"Minas Tirith." She smiled. She could almost see it in her mind. The Tower of Ecthalion, white against the sky, a banner billowing in the breeze. White. White in defiance of the darkness that was gathering in the East. For a moment, she saw the City as Boromir had, as the last hope for all that was good in Middle-Earth. As a fortress of light and truth. And she … he … its leader. She would lead them to victory. Against Mordor's forces, they would stand strong. She would—

No. The vision faded as she remembered – and was immediately surprised at how easily she had forgotten – the Ring. No victory would be achieved through strength of arms, Gandalf's words reminded her. The true hope for Middle-Earth lay with the Ring's destruction.

"Brooke?"

Wesley. How long had he been calling her name? Only then did she realize she was holding the Horn of Gondor. She gripped it tightly for a moment, clearing her head. "I'm sorry, Frodo. I was … thinking."

Wesley nodded, as if he understood. "So was I. In Lothlorien, Brooke, at Commander Riker's funeral … you said something. Something about halls."

"The Halls of Mandos. A place of waiting until the day when the world is renewed. After all of this is over, Frodo, you should read _The Silmarillion_."

Wesley cocked an eyebrow. "You really believe that?"

"Yes; it's a good book."

"That's not what I meant. I meant about the world being renewed and the halls of Manros and all that."

"Mandos."

"Whatever. Do you believe it?"

For a while, Brooke didn't answer, but, instead, turned her gaze downriver, clutching the Horn of Gondor tightly against her chest. "I want to believe it, Wesley," she said at last, quietly. "I suppose everyone does." Brooke reached into one of the wet sacks and pulled out some lembas bread, remarkably still dry. She broke off a piece and handed some to Wesley.

But it was more than that. More than wanting to believe it. Merely wanting it to be true wasn't a good enough reason to believe it. She had never been certain, back on the _Enterprise_. But here, in this world, the thought seemed more real. The history of this world was tangible, the legacy of its previous inhabitants more than a thought or a memory. Everything here was part of some grander design. A tapestry. And it seemed suddenly absurd to think that the weaver of that tapestry would not, in the end, allow every needle, every thread, every loom, to witness the final design.

"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world," Brooke said softly, "and beyond them is more than memory. Yes, Frodo. I do believe it." She took a bite of the lembas bread. "Strange."

"What?"

"It's just … this lembas tastes exactly like I thought it would."

"Lembas? What is it, exactly?"

"Elvish bread. The Quenian form of the word is coimas. Literally, 'life bread.' Try some. It's said that one bite can sustain a grown man for a whole day."

Wesley cocked an eyebrow doubtfully, but took a bite. "It _is_ good," he agreed, quite surprised. Then he laughed. "A grown man, huh? I wonder about a grown Klingon."

Brooke laughed. "Get some sleep, Frodo. I'll take the first watch, and wake you if it gets too dark for me to navigate by myself."

Wesley lay down. "Or if the boat starts to fill with water again? It's a good thing Guinan thought to give us a pot, or we would have sunk."

"Frodo, the boats of Lorien—"

"—do not sink. Yeah, you said that last night. But then, if I remember correctly, you started bailing, too."

Brooke smiled. "It's like death, Frodo. I believe it isn't the end, just like I believe the Elves' magic will keep the boat from sinking. But I'm not exactly in a hurry to find out for sure."

* * *

><p>Days passed, one blending into the next as Wesley and Brooke traded watch after watch. It was a few hours after nightfall when Brooke shook Wesley awake. The night was cold and foggy, and Brooke was paddling towards shore.<p>

"This is strange weather," Wesley noted, sitting up groggily, shivering from the cold.

Brooke shook her head. "No. I was expecting this. We've almost reached Sarn Gebir. We need to pull ashore."

"All right," Wesley agreed sleepily, and took up his paddle. Soon, they were safely on the western shore. Wesley stepped hesitantly out of the boat. It had been days since his feet had touched land for more than a few minutes. Every few hours, they had stopped, but never for long. Brooke knew the need for haste. So even now, safely ashore, she was anxious to keep moving.

"How long has it been?" Wesley asked, stretching his legs. He had lost track of time altogether. Days and nights all melted into one, and the scenery hadn't changed significantly since they'd entered the Brown Lands. Still, he knew Brooke was keeping track.

"It's been six days since we left Lorien," Brooke replied, gently rubbing her leg. "We're ahead of where the Fellowship would have been, as I expected. I can't say how far behind the others might be, but they must be catching up. We should keep moving."

"I'll take the supplies," Wesley volunteered, and slung the pack over his shoulders. Then he hesitated. "How are we going to carry the oars, too?"

Brooke didn't have an answer immediately. There was certainly an advantage to having a larger group, particularly a larger group that included an android and a Klingon. But she hadn't brought Data or Worf. She had brought Wesley.

"Hold still," Brooke instructed, then proceeded to weave the oars in and out of the straps of the pack on Wesley's back. "There. It's a little clumsy, but better than trying to make two trips. Come on."

Together, Brooke in front, Wesley in back, they lifted the boat – which was lighter than even Brooke had expected – and started off into the forest. Before long, Brooke found the path, and the way became easier, even in the darkness and the fog. Brooke knew the way; Wesley simply needed to follow her steps.

On they went into the night, through the fog. The darkness reminded them both a little too much of Moria, and Brooke longed for the light that Picard's staff would have provided. But any light, even in the fog, might reveal them to the Orcs or the Uruk-Hai.

So they pressed on into the fog, hour after hour. Rests were few; neither wanted to remain in the forest any longer than was necessary. At last, the rushing noise of the river calmed. They had passed the rapids. Brooke smiled. "We're almost done, Frodo. We just need to get back to the river."

Wesley let out a sigh of relief. He felt so vulnerable, carrying a boat in the pitch black and the fog. After this, even the open river would be a relief.

Suddenly, Wesley felt an odd, cold sensation running up his spine. Something was close. Terribly close. "Brooke," he whispered.

"I feel it, too," Brooke agreed, barely whispering. "Help me set the boat down quietly, and then lie still."

Wesley did as she said, crouching behind the boat with Brooke. He shuddered. It seemed as if a dark shadow – darker even than the surrounding darkness – was coming closer. Closer.

He didn't want to be here. Suddenly, he was terrified. He tried to get up and run, but his legs wouldn't obey. His hand moved slowly to the Ring. If only he could disappear…

And, suddenly, he had. In that instant, he had slipped the Ring on his finger. But, instead of disappearing, he knew suddenly that he had, in fact, become more visible. More vulnerable. The night became so much colder, death-like.

He could sense the presence now, coming towards him with frightening speed, as if drawn to the Ring. Closer. Closer.

Suddenly, Wesley heard a voice, and a blinding light pierced the darkness. The voice was Brooke's, and yet not Brooke's. As it had on the Bridge of Khazad-dum, her familiar voice rang with a power not quite her own.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel!_

Then, even louder, more certain,

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
><em>_Silivern penna miriel  
><em>_O menel aglar elenath  
><em>_Na-charad palen-diriel  
><em>_O galadheremmin ennorath  
><em>_Fanuilos le linnathon  
><em>_Nef aear si nef aeron._

The words were powerful, but the shadow was growing. Wesley could feel his strength slipping, consciousness leaving him as the dark presence began to overwhelm his mind. With his last bit of strength, his hand found the Ring and pulled It from his finger. Then darkness took him.

Beside him, Brooke collapsed back to the ground. She had leapt to her feet as the Nazgul had approached, but had been helpless to do anything. She had no bow and no desire to allow it to come close enough for a sword to be of any use. Terror had filled her as it had Wesley, but she had been expecting it, and so had been more able to fight it. The light had come from the Phial of Galadriel, and the words from the books she knew so well.

Indeed, she had read the words before, spoken them many times. But never before had she truly felt the power behind them. Her enemy – as surprised, perhaps, as she – had fled. But the Nazgul would return; of that, she was certain. They needed to keep moving.

Brooke knelt by Wesley's side, guided by the dim light that still shone from the Phial. He was terribly pale, a look of pain and shock and terror on his face. In his hand was the Ring. Brooke gently took it and placed it once more around his neck. She shook him and called his name, but he didn't respond. There was nothing to do but wait. But they couldn't do it here.

Carefully, Brooke turned the boat upright and eased it down to the bank of the river. Then she dragged Wesley as gently as she could over the roots and stones, and at last heaved him over the side of the boat. One more shove pushed the boat away from the shore. Brooke climbed in and took up a paddle.

The fog was lifting. Pale rays of light shone in the East. Strange, Brooke thought – not for the first time – that Tolkien had chosen the East, the direction of the sunrise, to represent terror and doom for all of Middle-Earth.

* * *

><p>The sun was already above the treetops when Wesley finally woke. "Brooke?" he asked shakily, his eyes fluttering open at last. "What—" He tried to sit up, but decided against it. "What happened, Brooke?"<p>

"You put the Ring on, you idiot. If I weren't so happy you're finally awake, I'd push you in the River right now, Gollum or no Gollum."

"But … what was it?"

"A Nazgul. A Black Rider. One of the Nine."

"The … the Nine?" He managed to sit up at last.

"The Men to whom the Nine Rings were given, Frodo. Neither living nor dead, they now roam Middle-Earth in search of the Ring."

"It seemed so … so familiar, somehow."

"Frodo met them before, at Weathertop, but I don't know how you would remember that."

"Maybe this world _is _becoming more real," Wesley admitted. "That … Black Rider … it was terrifying. I … I was afraid of the Orcs and the troll and the Balrog, but they didn't seem quite so … I don't know, so real."

"You had the Ring on, Frodo. You entered their world, the world of shadows. Of course they would be more real."

Wesley shuddered. "I'll never put the Ring on again," he promised.

"Good to hear. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get some rest."

"Just one more question."

Brooke sighed as she lay down as well as she could. "_One_, Frodo."

"The Black Rider … you got rid of it. How? What was it that you said?"

"It was a song to Elbereth. Varda. The Queen of Stars. And I did _not_ 'get rid of it.' Not in any permanent sense. I merely startled him enough to make him think twice. Once he's done rethinking and decides we really aren't that much of a threat, he'll be back."

"He?"

Brooke stared up at the stars. "These Nazgul were once Men, Frodo, not unlike myself. They were deceived by Sauron, blinded by the power he offered. Now they are bound to him forever. It is a fate I narrowly escaped, Frodo. I gave the Ring back to you. I fear Its power would have broken me. And yet it was power that drew me. The power of having the Quest in my own hands, of not having to worry about any of you."

Brooke sat up a little, leaning back against the boat. "You asked me for proof that I would not take the Ring back, Frodo. The only proof I can offer is my own fear. I dare not take It. 'I would not take this thing if It lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory.'

"Faramir's words. I never quite understood why, until now – why he would not take the Ring. Perhaps he knew what would befall him if he did, and was afraid. Perhaps both he and I are wise enough to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee. But I think the better explanation is that he was wise enough to know that the Ring had been given to Frodo – for whatever reason. Frodo had been chosen, not he, and not I. And whether he agreed with that choice was not important. The decision had already been made, and Faramir knew better than to tamper with it."

Wesley saw where she was going. "Well, yes, I was chosen as Frodo – but by Q. You have every right to question his choice."

Brooke shook her head. "No, Frodo. He matched us with certain characters, it's true, and any other choice, I could question – though I wouldn't. But you and I had already chosen our roles. The first time we used my Amon Hen program together, you chose the role of the hero. I chose Boromir. I believe I chose rightly, and, given the chance, I wouldn't choose any differently – for any of us."

"I might … for myself."

Brooke nodded as she lay down again. "And that's what makes me so certain that you chose rightly, Frodo."


	12. Past the Roaring Falls

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Not my own. Not my precious. You could probably make an argument for circular by this point, but not gold or shiny.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<br>****Past the Roaring Falls**

The day passed slowly, and faded into night. Dawn broke again in the east. Brooke allowed the boat to drift slowly throughout the night, and yet they neither saw nor heard any sign of the others. Brooke took to glancing behind the boat uncertainly. Was it possible that the others had decided not to follow? Were they on their own?

No. No, Picard was stubborn, but not cold-blooded. And Dr. Crusher wouldn't just abandon her son. No. They had to be coming.

But what if they didn't? How long could she and Wesley wait once they reached Amon Hen? The Fellowship had lingered too long there, and their choice had proven fatal, and had scattered their Fellowship across Middle-Earth.

Maybe the others had tried to navigate the rapids at Sarn Gebir. Or maybe the Uruk-Hai had already found them. They could easily have been ambushed in the fog. Had she lured them to their deaths?

Or had the weather simply slowed them down? Would they have tried to travel in the fog? No, surely they had more sense. She and Wesley had been on shore; on the River, fog would be too dangerous. Picard wouldn't take the risk.

Brooke looked ahead along the River. She picked up a paddle and dug it into the water, first on one side, then on the other. They didn't need the speed, so she paddled only gently, but the rhythm was calming. It was something that was certain. And she needed all the certainty she could get.

Around noon, she woke Wesley for lunch. Both were silent; he, too, knew that it wouldn't be long before the others caught up, or before they didn't.

Brooke stared out down the River. At last, she could see what she'd been waiting for, what she'd been longing to see. "Frodo, look," she pointed.

Wesley looked where she was pointing. "What? What do you see?"

But Brooke could see them, two pillars of stone reaching towards the sky. As they drew closer, she could see clearly what she had already known: each was carved in the likeness of a man, towering high above the trees. Each held an arm outstretched over the river, hand raised.

"Who are they?" Wesley asked in astonishment, a little fear in his voice.

But all fear, all doubt, had left Brooke at the sight of the Argonath. "They are Isildur and Anarion," she said, her gaze never leaving the two great men. "This marks the ancient border of Gondor. Under the shadow of our ancestors, Men of the South have nothing to fear."

Even as she spoke, her gaze was drawn to Isildur. Such a mighty man, brought down by the power of the Ring. Not unlike Boromir. But Boromir had triumphed, in the end, giving his life nobly trying to save Merry and Pippin. And now Wesley – Frodo – was under her protection, as much as the younger Hobbits had been under Boromir's. She would do what was necessary to protect him, to ensure that the Quest would be finished. This she swore silently as their small boat passed between the two heroes. A wind from the south blew in her face, casting her hair about wildly. Brooke grasped the Horn of Gondor tightly and nodded silently. They had heard. Isildur had heard. And she had his blessing.

After they passed the Argonath, the River widened into a lake. "Nen Hithoel," Brooke said quietly. "There lies Amon Hen, and the end of this stage of our journey. We will wait here for the others."

Wesley nodded, and, together, they steered the boat towards shore. Once they were out of the boat, Brooke could see Rauros clearly; the huge waterfall was breathtakingly close. Brooke smiled. They'd made it.

But they wouldn't be safe there forever. It was only a matter of time before they would simply have to go on alone, hoping that the others would find their way if they were still alive. But how would she be able to convince Wesley if it became necessary? How could she ask him to abandon all hope of seeing his mother, his Captain, his friends, ever again in Middle-Earth?

Brooke was pacing beside the boat, stretching her legs and trying to clear her head, when something caught her eye. It was the mithril coat! She'd completely forgotten. "Frodo!" she called. "Here! Put this on!"

"What is it?"

"It's mithril. It's a metal mined by the Dwarves. Bilbo was supposed to give it to you in Rivendell, but it seems he forgot. Q gave it to me before we left Lorien. It's light, but hard. You didn't need it in Moria as Frodo did, but you might yet." She tossed it to him. After he had stared at it for a moment, Brooke laughed. "You wear it under your other clothes. Don't worry; I won't look." She turned away from Wesley and the boat.

After only a moment, she heard a splash. She turned to see Wesley in the boat, pulling away from shore. "Frodo, what are you doing?" she called, running after him.

"I'm finding the others!" he called back, turning the boat against the current.

"You're insane!" Brooke called back, but realized even as the words left her mouth that this wasn't a temporary madness. He had been planning this – maybe even since they'd left Lothlorien. She had believed – had _wanted _to believe – that she had convinced him, but she never had. His loyalty was to Picard, to the _Enterprise_.

Running after him through the water, Brooke at last managed to catch the end of the boat, just as her feet were swept out from under her. Sputtering, she pulled herself into the boat, as Wesley paddled farther and farther out onto the lake, closer now to the eastern shore. "We have to get back to shore!" she insisted, taking up a paddle.

Suddenly, a rain of arrows poured down from the eastern shore. "Get down!" Brooke yelled, but her warning came too late; an arrow struck Wesley in the shoulder. "That," Brooke mumbled as he slumped to the bottom of the boat, "is why I told you to put that mithril shirt on."

The arrows continued to fly over their heads, but the river was drawing the boat steadily towards the Falls of Rauros. They had to get to shore; even in a boat of Lorien, going over the waterfall would almost certainly be deadly. Brooke took a deep breath, grabbed a paddle, and sat up. Quickly, she had the boat turned towards the western shore. An arrow struck her in the back, piercing her armor. Brooke paddled harder. They had to get to shore, or they would both die, arrows or no. At last, they reached the western bank.

The Orcs had stopped shooting. Brooke knew they weren't out of range, but didn't really care. At least they had stopped. Trying to be careful, she dragged Wesley out of the boat. He coughed and opened his eyes. "What happened?"

"Once again, Frodo, you did something incredibly foolish," Brooke replied, yanking the arrow out of his shoulder.

"So did you," Wesley replied. "You came after me."

"I thought—"

"What? That I was on your side? That I would just abandon my friends, my family, my shipmates? That your little Quest was more important than my duty to the _Enterprise_? I'm not like you, Brooke. I have a responsibility!"

"So do I," Brooke said gravely. "Commander Riker gave it to me. He told me to lead you home, and that's what I'm going to do. Here. I can't reach this arrow. Would you get it out?"

Wesley nodded and removed the arrow. "Thank you," he said grudgingly, handing it to Brooke. "For saving me."

Brooke studied the arrow for a moment. There was maybe a centimeter of blood coating the tip; her armor had stopped the arrow from doing any real damage. But beyond the tip, the arrow was coated in a thick green liquid. Wesley's was the same. "Don't thank me yet," Brooke warned. "This is why they stopped shooting. They knew the arrows didn't have to kill us. The poison will."

"Poison?" Wesley demanded. "You never said anything about poisoned arrows!"

"Well, forgive me for thinking that the Orcs on _that _side of the River weren't the ones we had to worry about!" Brooke shot back. "If it weren't for your little stunt—"

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now, is there?" Wesley pointed out. "But we really should bandage these injuries, or they might become infected."

Brooke sighed, but removed her armor. "Hand me a sack," she instructed. "And your sword. It's shorter than mine; it'll be easier to cut with."

"Well, it could be worse," Wesley remarked, drawing his sword. "Maybe the others will catch up, and my mom will be able to … Brooke?"

But Brooke was staring at his sword, which was glowing a bright blue. There were Orcs on the other side of the River, but they weren't close enough to make it glow that brightly. "Get up," she insisted. "We have to get out of here."

"And go where?" Wesley asked.

Brooke's mind raced as she rummaged through the boat, threw the pack across her back, and stuffed the Phial of Galadriel in her pocket. They couldn't cross the River. They couldn't take the boat down the Falls of Rauros. They couldn't try to paddle upriver; it would make them easy targets, both for the Orcs and the Uruk-Hai. They had to run.

"South," she pointed downriver. She stuffed the mithril shirt in the other pack and threw it to Wesley. He didn't have time to put it on now, but if they survived this…

Together, the two of them plunged into the woods. Brooke's heart was racing. How many times had they done this? And yet never like this. Wesley was losing blood from the wound in his shoulder, and she was breathing heavily. It was only a matter of time before…

And then there were sounds behind them. Brooke didn't turn. She knew what they were. And she knew what she had to do.

"Frodo," she managed through gasping breaths. "Go, Frodo. Get out of here. Put It on and run."

Wesley shook his head stubbornly. "I won't leave you here to die. There's got to be a better way."

"If there was, I would have mentioned it," Brooke insisted, drawing her sword. "Go!"

"No!" Wesley shouted back, drawing Sting. "No, Brooke. I'm not like you. We'll survive this together, or not at all."

Brooke nodded; she had to admire his courage, even if it was foolish. She reached for her shield, only to find she had left it with her armor by the boats. She turned to Wesley, who nodded.

Brooke blew a long blast on the Horn of Gondor. "May the Valar protect us," she whispered as she and Wesley turned to make their last stand.

* * *

><p>Perched high on the thin branch of a tree, Q smiled. He could see everything. And, this time, it was interesting. It was real. Wesley couldn't call a time-out. If Brooke took the Ring, it would mean leaving Wesley to the Uruk-Hai.<p>

Brooke blew the Horn of Gondor again. Now, Q knew, it wasn't just for show. She was desperately hoping Picard and his little band would show up soon. But would soon be soon enough?

This time, Brooke wasn't smiling. This wasn't a game anymore. Nor did she call to Wesley to ask if he needed help. They both knew he did. Both of them needed help. The Uruk-Hai were much more numerous than Brooke had ever dreamed of programming them on the holodeck. Some were responding to her attempts to draw them away from Wesley, but there were still more than enough to go after the Hobbit.

Suddenly, a sword made it through Wesley's defense, piercing him in the leg. Brooke turned, but was too far away to do anything. Q grinned. The Orc-poison was beginning to do its work. Wesley's movements were becoming clumsy, and even Brooke was beginning to tire. She blew another blast, not really expecting anything in return. Not anymore.

But she received an answer. "Brooke!" came Data's voice over the loud clashing of swords.

"Pippin!" Brooke shouted in amazement and relief. "Pippin, get Frodo out of here! Now!"

Just then, the broad side of a sword clashed into Wesley's head, and he fell to the ground. Data ran to the spot where he had fallen, but some of the Uruk-Hai had taken him and were now fleeing the battle. Data was about to follow them when he noticed a tiny gold ring on a chain, lying on the ground. Immediately, he scooped it up and stuck it in his pocket.

Q laughed. Those few seconds had given the Uruk-Hai a chance to attack. That would distract Data for a while. The entity's gaze now turned to the rest of the Fellowship, who were hurrying to catch up with their android.

Worf reached the battle first, and was instantly engaged by a rather large Uruk-Hai. The others, too, were soon fighting. And still the Uruk-Hai came.

"Brooke!" Picard called, his voice cold with accusation. "Where's Wesley?"

Brooke shot a glance in the direction the Uruk-Hai had taken him. Picard was closer than she was; maybe he could reach them. "That way! Hurry!" she shouted back.

Picard's gaze flew to where Brooke had been looking. Without hesitation, he took off after the Uruk-Hai that were carrying Wesley. He had almost reached them when another Uruk-Hai struck him from behind. A sword slashed across Picard's back, and another plunged deep into his leg.

Across the battlefield, Brooke saw Picard fall. She didn't think. She didn't have time to. The Uruk-Hai would not hesitate to kill him. Leaving the Uruk-Hai she was fighting, she raced for where the Captain lay, blocking blows as she went, even though she knew that she was probably already too late.

Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her chest. Q shook his head. In her panic, she'd forgotten to keep an eye out for the Uruk-Hai with bows. The force of the impact forced her to her knees, but she was up again before the Uruk-Hai could take advantage of it. But that moment gave the Uruk-Hai a chance to fire another arrow. At the same time, an Uruk-Hai slammed into her from the side, knocking her to the ground.

Brooke tried to get up, to catch her breath, but it was too late. She clutched the Horn of Gondor tightly. The Uruk-Hai raised its weapon.

But, as the sword came hurtling down, an arm reached in and turned the blade. The broad side smashed into Brooke's ribs, but she was alive. She stared; the arm belonged to yet another Uruk-Hai. "Alive and unspoiled," he reminded the other in a rough voice.

The other growled, but swung the broad side of his weapon into Brooke's head, knocking her out. Q smiled. That look had been unforgettable; Brooke was so confused.

All the Uruk-Hai turned to leave, leaving what was left of a very confused _Enterprise _crew. "Where is the Captain?" Worf demanded.

"They took him," Troi realized. "And Wesley and Brooke!"

"We must pursue them!" Worf insisted.

"Wait," Data interrupted. "We will require a better plan than that if we are to be successful. We must tend to our own injuries, and then decide on a course of action."

Q smiled. It wouldn't take them long. None of them had been wounded badly, and it must be fairly clear, even to them, that they had only two options. They could follow the Uruk-Hai, and hope for a miracle so that they could somehow rescue their companions. Or they could try to destroy the Ring as quickly as possible, and thus save their friends without all the fuss of attacking the Uruk-Hai.

Q smiled. The decision now lay in the hands of the highest-ranking officer, Pippin.


	13. The UrukHai

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<br>****The Uruk-Hai**

Cold. That was the first thing Brooke noticed as consciousness slowly washed back over her. The air around her felt icy cold. With every breath, it seemed as if thousands of tiny icicles were driven into her chest. Her limbs were numb, and her mind was clouded in a deep fog. She opened her eyes, but could see nothing through the grey mist that enveloped her. She was lost, lost and alone in the very depths of darkness itself.

Slowly, she became aware that she was moving. Bouncing up and down. The rhythm was steady, like the beat of a drum. But the clamor of the Uruk-Hai did not match the rhythm of any music. Theirs was chaos, discord, none of the usual harmony of natural life. For the Uruk-Hai were not natural. They were bred by Saruman in the caverns beneath Isengard, bred for destruction. The destruction of Middle-Earth.

Suddenly, the rhythm stopped. Voices pierced the night. Brooke struggled to make out what they were saying, and could at last understand some of their words.

"The prisoners go to Isengard." A rough voice, firm and controlled. Ugluk.

"Why to Isengard?" Grishnakh. The voice sent shivers down Brooke's spine. "The Great Eye is watching. He knows of your doings. He sees all. The prisoners are his."

"_We_ took the prisoners," Ugluk replied. "Your Master ordered the capture of the Halflings. But we have our orders. _We _captured these three, and they will go to Saruman, as ordered. We answer to him."

Brooke shuddered. She wished to hear no more. The foul voices had revealed only what she already knew: She, Wesley, and Picard – she could only assume it was the three of them – were being taken to Isengard. But why them? Why not the others? What made them different?

The rhythm returned. The bouncing. The clamor of Uruk-Hai feet. Her own ragged breathing. The pounding of her heart. The ringing in her ears. The sounds followed her to her dreams as she drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Hour bled into hour, day into night and back into day. Brooke's mind wavered between terrible dreams and the nightmare of the waking world. The Uruk-Hai were tireless, never straying from their own steady rhythm. Brooke soon lost track of time, and eventually ceased to care. What would happen would happen; there was nothing she could do about it now.

At last – Had it been hours? Days? – the Uruk-Hai stopped, and Brooke was dropped to the ground. The Uruks bound her legs and wrists, but she was only vaguely aware of it, as if it were happening far away, to someone else. It didn't matter. She couldn't move, anyway.

But then she felt it – something in the air, something real. The air was closer here, and a little warmer. At once, she knew where they were. They had reached the borders of Fangorn Forest. Breathing was easier, and her mind cleared a little.

Maybe there was hope…

* * *

><p>Watching from high in a tree on Fangorn's borders, Q smiled. Brooke had a plan, but it depended on Picard. Brooke had slowly been moving for a while now, inch by inch, so that the Uruk-Hai wouldn't notice. She now had the Phial of Galadriel in her hands. The Uruks, following orders, hadn't plundered them – only taken their weapons. Anything else, they had been told, could be of importance.<p>

Picard was awake, and had been for most of the journey. Now he noticed, though trying not to let on that he noticed, what Brooke was doing. He would never admit it, but he was actually relieved that she was conscious, and had a plan. Wesley still lay unconscious beside him, and that in itself was troubling. They had been traveling for two days; it was now night. That Wesley had not regained consciousness was beginning to worry Picard.

"The Wizard is worth the trouble," one of the Uruk-Hai was saying. "But the other two will die before we reach Isengard, or soon enough after. They were poisoned by the scum across the River, and—"

"I could help you," Picard interrupted loudly.

The Uruk-Hai turned. Ugluk strode forward. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a Wizard. I can keep them alive longer than you can. They're of no use to you dead; at least let me try."

Q saw Brooke try hard to conceal a smile. Picard had the right idea.

"Why would you help us?" Grishnakh questioned suspiciously.

"Because I don't want them to die any more than you do," Picard replied. "But I'll need you to untie me."

Ugluk nodded. "Untie him, but watch him closely."

The Uruks quickly freed Picard's hands and legs. He went first to Wesley and mumbled what he hoped sounded something like magic. In truth, it was an old French song called Frere Jacques. He could only hope it wouldn't make Brooke laugh and give herself away.

If nothing else, this opportunity told him one thing: Wesley was alive. But he was terribly pale and cold to the touch, though he was sweating. If only the Uruk-Hai had captured Dr. Crusher, as well…

Next, he moved on to Brooke. She looked as bad as Wesley, and was shaking uncontrollably. But she was alive, and conscious.

Picard took the Phial from her trembling hands, and immediately a blinding light burst forth. Q grinned. It startled Picard as much as the Uruk-Hai, but he quickly regained his senses. Grabbing a sword, he cut the ropes around Brooke's legs. Then he seized his staff from a startled Uruk-Hai, lifted Wesley, and ran for the forest.

The Uruk-Hai followed, leaving several to guard Brooke. Picard turned to face them, pointing his staff at the nearest one. The Phial blazed forth anew, and the staff gave off a brilliant glow. Picard ran on into the forest. Eventually, the noise of the Uruk-Hai died down behind him. They had given up.

Picard set Wesley down gently on the forest floor. Armed with his staff and the small Phial, he ran back to the edge of the forest. Why hadn't Brooke followed? Was she hurt that badly?

A smirk crossed Q's face as Picard raced back out of the forest. The Uruk-Hai saw him coming, and before he could do anything, a dozen arrows flew towards him. One struck him in the chest, another in the shoulder. The light from the Phial faded as Picard slumped to the ground.

Brooke had a dozen things she wanted to shout – none of them kind – but she couldn't reveal herself. The Uruk-Hai believed she was still unconscious. That might play in her favor yet.

Picard hadn't understood. She was too tired, too weak, her arms and legs too numb. Her plan had never been for herself, but for them. For Frodo. She'd sworn to protect him, and she had kept her word.

Suddenly, Brooke heard, in the distance, but coming nearer, the sound of horses. The Uruk-Hai heard it, as well, and quickly tied Picard and Brooke. They had to keep moving.

The Uruk-Hai near Brooke growled as he bound her legs. "He's fading. He won't survive the journey, and 'e'll slow us down."

"Leave 'im," Ugluk ordered. "We still have the Wizard. Saruman will ignore the loss of one Shire-rat and useless Gondor scum. Into the forest!"

Two of the Uruks scooped up Picard, and they all raced into the cover of Fangorn Forest. A grin played on Q's face. Brooke hadn't needed Picard's help, after all. Had she planned it, or simply been lucky? Either way, she was free, and Picard was still a prisoner. And Wesley was all by himself, deep in Fangorn Forest.

Q snapped his fingers and disappeared. Immediately, he reappeared atop a tall, dark tower. Orthanc. His hair was now white and long, and he wore a long, white robe. A staff was in his hand, and now thousands of Uruk-Hai were at his command.

"Hmmm," he mused. Then he snapped his fingers, and his robes changed. Their color was impossible to tell, for it shifted with his slightest motion. He was Saruman, Saruman of Many Colors, Master of Isengard.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

><p>Rain was beginning to fall, but Brooke barely felt it. Her plan had failed. Picard had come back. She and Wesley were free, but Wesley was lost somewhere inside Fangorn Forest and would probably remain there until he died. And Gandalf would soon, once again, be a prisoner at Isengard. But this time, Saruman would be more careful. Picard would not escape.<p>

The Uruk-Hai's shouts and footsteps faded into the distance, but Brooke paid them no more attention than the rain. It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered. The Uruk-Hai had left her because they knew she was going to die. And they were right, she realized, lying there in the dirt that was quickly turning to mud. This was the end. She was going to die here, alone.

The sound of hoofbeats came closer. She wanted to cry out, to let them know she was alive, but all that came out was a strained whisper: "Help! I'm over here!"

Suddenly, a voice burst through the shadows. "My lord, there's someone over here! I think she's alive!"

Brooke struggled to hear the voice. It was a relief, in so many ways. The voice had said 'she.' So far, everyone from this world had seen her as Boromir of Gondor, except the crew of the _Enterprise_. The other riders would ignore it, as the Elves of Lorien had, but one voice had recognized her. The voice was clear and confident, with an Irish accent that caught her by surprise.

"Well done, Hama," came a second voice. Eomer. Brooke could feel hands untying her, examining her wounds.

"It would appear he was their prisoner, my lord," the Irish voice suggested. "They can't be far away."

He. He had said 'he.' He'd caught on quickly.

"Why would they leave their prisoner?" Eomer mused. "Especially one so important?"

"Who is he?" Hama asked.

"Boromir of Gondor," Brooke answered weakly. "They fled … into the forest … They knew I … wouldn't survive the trip … to Isengard…"

"It's as you said, Hama," Eomer said slowly. "These Orcs are servants of Saruman, not Sauron."

"They may have other prisoners, my lord," Hama ventured. "Ones they believed would survive the journey."

"Gandalf," Brooke said quietly, struggling to remain conscious long enough to tell them what they needed to know.

"Gandalf?" Eomer asked. "Gandalf Greyhame? He was with you?"

"Yes," Brooke gasped. "And … another …" She could feel her mind slipping, slipping into darkness.

"Another?" Hama probed. "What do you mean?"

Darkness was coming. Oblivion. She had to give him something, anything, to go on. "Picard and Wesley," she managed quietly before the darkness claimed her.

"What did he say?" Eomer asked, confused.

"I don't know, my lord," the man called Hama lied. "We should take him to Edoras."

Eomer nodded. "We will not find the Orcs in Fangorn. Come. I will bear him on my horse. We ride for Edoras."

His companion nodded. "Yes, my lord."


	14. The Door Warden of the Golden Hall

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Lots of not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen<br>****The Door Warden of the Golden Hall**

"Boromir. Boromir, wake up." It was the Irish voice again, dragging her back out of her dreams, back to a reality that was far worse. The pain returned as she became more aware. The pain, and the cold. Brooke shivered, though she could feel a blanket over her. Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

"Boromir?" the voice asked again. Brooke tried to reply, but all that came out was a low moan. "Well, that's a start," the voice acknowledged. "At least you can hear me. Take it easy; you've had a rough time. But I was worried if you stayed unconscious for too long, we might lose you. I'm no doctor, but you look terrible."

Brooke tried to laugh, but only started coughing. Instantly, the man was at her side to help her sit up, which made coughing easier but also made her head spin. "It's … all right …" she gasped between coughs. The man held a glass of water to her lips, and she drank gratefully. The man lowered her gently onto the bed.

Slowly, Brooke opened her eyes, but the world was little brighter. A faint shadow amid the darkness was leaning over her, but she could make out no more – no face, no features. "Who are you?" she asked weakly.

"I could ask you the same thing. But I'm Miles O' Brien, or Hama, to these people. And you?"

"Boromir … to them. I'm Brooke. Brooke Warrington."

"No kidding! Brooke Warrington! Wesley's told me all about you! You're the one with that Amon Hen program on the holodeck."

"Wh—what?" Didn't he know? Hadn't he heard from the rest of the crew that she wasn't to be trusted? How could the first thing he remembered be her holodeck program? "Don't you know?" she asked. "About Q?"

"What about him? Wesley told me you helped him once, but…" The pieces fell into place. "This has something to do with him, doesn't it? All this? I thought it was some sort of glitch in the holodeck until I saw you. I've been here at Edoras for at least two weeks now and haven't been able to do a thing about it – and not for lack of trying. But Q … why would he do this?"

"It's a favor," Brooke sighed. "A favor gone all wrong. We can't go back … not until the Ring is destroyed …"

"The Ring?"

Brooke's heart sank. For a moment, she had hoped that maybe, just maybe, O' Brien knew what was happening. Still, he'd managed to survive at Edoras for two weeks on his own, which meant he'd been able to think on his feet. "We shouldn't talk about it here," Brooke explained. "Grima—"

"Yes, we've met, unfortunately. He had Eomer locked up when we got back, said something about Theoden having given orders not to pursue the Uruk-Hai. But everyone knows it's Wormtongue giving orders, though it seems it wasn't always that way. This Saruman – I'd venture a guess that Wormtongue's working for him."

Before Brooke had a chance to compliment O' Brien's quite accurate assessment, the door creaked open. "Hama," came a man's voice. "There are five strangers outside requesting an audience with King Theoden."

"Who are they?"

"An Elf, a Dwarf, and three others."

"I know them," Brooke said. "They are Legolas, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, Gimli, son of Gloin of the Dwarves of Erebor, and Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took, Hobbits of the Shire, a land far to the north. They mean no harm here, Hama."

To her relief, O' Brien picked up on her plan. "Show them in; I'll speak with them first."

As the man's footsteps faded into the distance, Brooke collapsed back onto her pillow. "Thank you," she said quietly, drained from the effort of such a lengthy introduction. "You catch on well."

"And you know your stuff. I'm surprised you didn't give the names of the Hobbits' fathers, too."

"Hamfast, Sardoc, and Paladin," Brooke mumbled without a second thought.

Everything was getting darker. She barely heard O' Brien's voice. "Brooke, are you all right?"

"No." No point in pretending otherwise. But she couldn't worry about that now. He needed information – information the others couldn't give him. "Hama, listen to me. The Uruk-Hai have Gandalf – the Captain. Frodo – Wesley – he's in Fangorn Forest. We have other allies there. Ents. Tree-herders."

"I've heard of them," O' Brien agreed. "Folks around here seem to consider them a myth."

"They're no myth. They can help us. Hama—" she was cut off as an icy feeling swept through her body. Desperately, she fought to stay conscious. Just a little longer. "Hama, listen to me—"

"Boromir—"

"Listen to me, Hama," Brooke insisted. "You need to free Eomer. The people will follow him. You have to raise an army and—"

"Boromir!" Something in O' Brien's voice made Brooke stop short. Something was wrong.

"So," came another voice, and that one word sent a shiver up Brooke's spine. For a brief moment, her vision cleared, and she could see him in the doorway, with Worf, Troi, Dr. Crusher, Data, and Geordi behind him. "So, Boromir of Gondor is trying to incite rebellion in Rohan. King Theoden will be very interested in this. And these others – friends of yours?"

"No," O' Brien replied before anyone else had a chance to say anything. "I was about to come and tell you, Grima. Boromir warned me that these five might be pursuing him. They have come, I believe, to warn us of the threat he poses to Rohan. He has fled his own country, hoping to raise trouble here."

Relief washed over Brooke. Yes. He understood. He knew arguing would only get them all locked up. She could only hope the others would have the sense to stay quiet and let her and O' Brien handle it. "Liar!" she screamed, doing everything she could to add to the effectiveness of O' Brien's act, even though the effort sent the world spinning as she began to shake violently.

"Well." She could practically see Grima's smug smile, though she could make out little more than shadows against the deeper darkness. "If Boromir wishes to see Eomer so badly, perhaps he should be permitted to pay him a visit."

Two strong men pulled Brooke to her feet. Brooke struggled as much as her aching limbs would allow. It was only for effect; they dragged her easily from the room and down the hall, then down a flight of stairs. A door was opened, and Brooke was dropped to the floor inside.

A rattling of chains revealed that she wasn't alone, but her companion said nothing. A swift kick from one of the guards rolled Brooke over onto her back. The other firmly bound her hands and feet; Grima wasn't taking any chances. Then the door creaked shut, and footsteps faded into the distance.

"Boromir?" Eomer's voice pierced the darkness. "Boromir, what happened?"

But Brooke didn't have the strength to answer. The darkness was growing, the pain and the cold clouding her thoughts. Consciousness began to slip from her grasp. But she had done what she needed to do. Hama … O' Brien … knew what he needed to know.

Rohan was in good hands.

* * *

><p>The moment Grima left, O' Brien collapsed onto the bed. Data closed the door. "I'm sorry," O' Brien apologized. "I didn't have a choice. She—"<p>

"Don't apologize; it's about time someone locked her up," Dr. Crusher interrupted.

O' Brien looked up. "Pardon?"

"She kidnapped Wesley!"

"Because of her actions, the Captain and Wesley were taken prisoner by the Uruk-Hai," Data added.

"And she's in league with Q," Worf growled.

O' Brien held up his hands. "Now, hold on a moment. Are we talking about the same girl?"

"Yes!" came a chorus of voices.

"But how did she get here?" Geordi asked.

"She must have escaped – and left the Captain and Wesley behind," Worf offered.

O' Brien shook his head. "Quite the opposite, actually. The Uruk-Hai left _her_. Apparently, they thought she wouldn't survive the trip and decided to lighten the load." The room grew silent. "Well, I guess you don't hate her enough to want her dead, then," O' Brien observed. "Now, maybe we can start at the beginning."

But before the others could offer one word of explanation, the door opened again, and a woman entered. She was tall and pale, beautiful, but with a fire in her eyes and a dignity in her bearing that announced to the world that she was not some weak, helpless child.

O' Brien bowed deeply. "My lady. How may I be of service?"

The woman glanced around at O' Brien's companions. "Can they be trusted?"

"Absolutely. They've come to help us."

"We have?" Data questioned.

O' Brien glared at the android for a split second, then recovered as well as he could. "The Lady Eowyn can be trusted, my friends; there is no need to hide your intentions."

"My lady," Geordi bowed, catching on. "We offer you our services, such as they are. I am Merry, a Hobbit of the Shire. My companions are Pippin and Sam, and this is Legolas and Gimli."

"What is your interest in Rohan?"

"We all have a common enemy, my lady," O' Brien explained. "Three of their companions were captured by servants of Saruman. One of them is keeping your brother company at the moment."

"This is what I wished to speak of, Hama. Saruman's armies are growing. Soon, Rohan will be overrun. Yet my uncle cannot be convinced of the threat, for Wormtongue fills his mind with poison. There is none more loyal to Rohan than my brother, yet he is imprisoned. No one is left to defend our people."

"Why come to me, my lady? What would you have me do?"

"I would have your answer to a question first: Is your loyalty to your king or to your people?"

"Both, my lady." O' Brien knew by now where she was going. "But our king is being misled. When the wisdom of our leaders has turned to madness … well, we don't really have much of a choice, do we? A king's supposed to protect his people, but King Theoden seems content to let the Uruk-Hai take Rohan without a fight. We've got to do something, my lady.

"Now, Boromir had a plan, before Wormtongue went and spoiled it. I agree with him. We free Eomer. We raise an army. And we fight these Uruk-Hai. If they want to lock us up afterwards, let them. At least Rohan will be safe."

Eowyn stared for a moment, surprised by O' Brien's candidness. But then she smiled. "And your companions?"

"We just want to help our friends," Troi put in. "We came here hoping for your help in rescuing them. But Hama's right; we're fighting the same enemy."

"We can trust them, my lady," O' Brien assured Eowyn, wishing the others would just keep quiet and let him handle it.

Eowyn nodded. "I will begin gathering such warriors as I believe may be trusted. Speak to the guards, Hama; it may be that some of them will help us. At sundown, we'll act."

"Until then, my lady." He bowed low as she left. Geordi did the same.

"How will this help us rescue the Captain and Wesley?" Data asked once Eowyn was far enough away.

O' Brien closed the door. "It doesn't … not immediately. But if Rohan falls, rescuing them is out of the question entirely. In any case, the Captain's the only one who's at Isengard – or on his way there, at least. Brooke said Wesley was in Fangorn Forest. He's probably safer than the rest of us right now."

"And who is this Eomer?" Worf asked.

"King Theoden's nephew. He and Eowyn are our best chance now; people will listen to them. And if we free Eomer, we free Brooke, too, and, whatever she may have done, she knows what's going on better than any of us."

"You seem to know Rohan fairly well," Geordi noted.

"Yes, and I thought I was doing quite well, too, until she came along and rattled off a bunch of places I'd never even heard of. This is bigger than Rohan. And the threat is bigger than Saruman."

"The threat is Q," Data reminded everyone.

O' Brien nodded. "All right, but we can't do anything about Q. But maybe we can do something about Saruman."


	15. Outside Information

**Disclaimer: **Once you think about it, it's a bit odd that I could have this much fun writing something that's ... _completely not mine!_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen<br>****Outside Information**

A loud growl startled Picard out of a restless sleep. They had stopped. His eyes flew open to reveal the light of the sun setting over the plains. In the distance loomed a dark tower. He didn't need anyone to tell him what lay ahead; he knew that must be their destination. Isengard.

The Uruk-Hai picked up their pace again. Picard looked around as they steadily approached the tower. Nothing. No chance of escape. Soon, he would be a prisoner of this Saruman that Brooke had spoken of. What dark fate awaited him there? Brooke had been concerned about Saruman finding the Ring, but he didn't have It. He didn't even know where It was any more. What would Saruman want with him?

At last, they reached the steps of the tower of Isengard. A figure was descending the stairs, slowly, patiently. He had all the time in the world now. His long hair and beard blew in the wind, and his robes billowed behind him. Picard found himself staring at the robes, for their color seemed to change constantly, before he could even recognize which color had just passed.

"Why, my dear Gandalf, welcome back," came a voice. But not the one he'd expected. In fact…

"Q!" Picard realized, looking up. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Well, I thought it was rather obvious," Q remarked casually. "You're Gandalf the Grey. I'm Saruman of Many Colors. And you are my prisoner."

"Did Brooke—"

"No, dear Boromir doesn't have a clue who she's really up against." He laughed. "Untie him; he can do no harm here."

The Uruks dumped Picard to the ground and untied him. Q held out his hand, but Picard struggled to his feet on his own, crossing his arms stubbornly. "What do you expect to gain by this, Q?"

"A little amusement, for starters. Surely you don't believe your Fellowship will simply allow you to remain a prisoner here, Gandalf. And surely you must be curious about what has happened to them."

"And you're just going to tell me?" Picard scoffed. "That doesn't sound like you, Q."

"But it does sound like Saruman. What more fitting torture for Gandalf the Grey than to watch his friends perish, one by one?"

"You will have no such pleasure, Q. I have faith in my crew."

"And in Brooke?"

"The Uruk-Hai left her behind. She's probably dead by now."

"She's not dead, Gandalf. Not yet. But, come, why should I tell you when I can show you? Come, my old friend, shall we not take counsel together as we did of old, or something of that sort?" He gestured towards the steps. "At the very least, you must be hungry. Come, Gandalf, you are my guest once more."

Picard stood stubbornly at the bottom of the stairs. "Brooke mentioned Gandalf had been Saruman's prisoner before."

Q laughed. "What? The guest who has escaped from the roof will think twice before he comes back in by the door? Oh, come now, Gandalf." He smiled mischievously. "Don't you at least want to know what has befallen little Frodo? You left him in Fangorn Forest, but not alone. He was found soon afterwards, old friend."

At last, Picard could no longer deny his curiosity. "By whom? Are there Elves in this forest, as well?"

"Oh, no, Gandalf, not at all. Such narrow-mindedness, expecting only the beings you have already encountered. But as for who found Frodo, there are no words to describe him. Will you not come and see for yourself, Gandalf?"

Picard eyed the entity distrustfully. Could he believe what Q was telling him? Or was it all a trick, some kind of a joke meant only for Q's amusement? "How can I know you're telling the truth?"

A smug smile played on Q's face. "You can't, Gandalf. But right now, I'm the most reliable source you have. You can't afford not to take advantage of that. Come, Gandalf."

Slowly, hesitantly, Picard ascended to where Q stood, a few steps above the ground. "Leave us," Q ordered the Uruk-Hai. Then he led Picard up the stairs and down the hall into an empty room. He snapped his fingers, and a table appeared, a feast spread upon it. "Have a seat," Q offered as two chairs appeared on opposite sides of the table. "Eat all you like; unlike Boromir and Frodo, you needn't worry about poison."

"Wesley!" Picard exclaimed, remembering why he had followed Q in the first place. "Where is he?"

Q smiled, and from the folds of his robe, he drew a huge black ball. "A Palantir," he answered before Picard could ask. "Unlike Saruman, I have complete control over what it shows me. Watch, Gandalf." He held out the ball to Picard, who hesitated, but then took it.

* * *

><p>Slowly, a forest appeared within the sphere, and there, amid the trees, he could see Wesley. The boy opened his eyes and, slowly, hesitantly, sat up. He looked around, quite confused. He had been unconscious during their whole journey, Picard remembered. For all Wesley knew, he could still be at Amon Hen.<p>

"Hmmmm," came a deep, rumbling voice that startled both Wesley and Picard. "So, you are alive." The voice spoke slowly, and was unlike anything Picard had ever heard. The closest he could come to describing it was that it _sounded _old, very old, and yet there was nothing feeble or weak in the sound.

Wesley looked around, searching for the speaker. But there was no one. No one at all. "Hello?" he asked timidly.

"Hrummm," said the voice, or something that sounded like that. "Such a pleasant voice. No, you do not sound like an Orc at all."

"I'm not an Orc," Wesley said quickly. "I'm … a Hobbit. A Hobbit of the Shire. Please, where are you?"

"Hrmmm, a Hobbit. I have never heard of Hobbits. But let's not be hasty. Where am I? I am here."

A giant arm reached down and scooped Wesley up. Picard stared. The arm belonged to a tree, or, at least, a creature who appeared very much like a tree, all covered in bark and leaves. "Who are you?" Wesley asked in amazement. "And … where am I?"

"Hrmm, such a curious little creature. I am an Ent. We are the shepherds of the trees, the oldest of all living things. Some call me Fangorn, or Treebeard, as you might like."

"Frodo Baggins," Wesley introduced himself. "Where are we, Treebeard? Have you seen any others like me? I was with someone else, a man of Gondor. We were on the Anduin River when we were attacked by the Uruk-Hai of Isengard."

A surge of pride rushed through Picard. Even in this strange situation, wounded and disoriented, Wesley had kept his head, remembering to use the name of his character, remembering the strange names of the places and creatures of this world.

"The Anduin River?" Treebeard repeated. "Then you have come a long way, by your reckoning, young Frodo Baggins. You are in Fangorn Forest – very close to Isengard. Hrmmm, yes, there was someone else with you. Gandalf the Grey brought you here, and then left in a terrible hurry. He did not even stop to say 'good evening.' He was on some wizard-business, I suppose, and he knew that I would find you. Yes, you are quite safe here, young Frodo Baggins."

"So … you're with us? On our side?"

"Hrummm, now, don't be hasty. I said nothing of sides. Gandalf is an old friend, and so you are safe, but we Ents have not troubled ourselves with the affairs of Men and Wizards – not for many long years.

A Prime Directive. Wesley nodded. "I understand."

"Hrumm, but now we cannot stand by while Saruman goes unanswered. His Orcs pillage and burn in Rohan, and everywhere trees are falling to their fires. Yes, something must be done about Saruman."

"I'll go with you," Wesley volunteered. Perhaps he had guessed what had happened, that his Captain was a prisoner at Isengard.

"Hrmm, now let's not be hasty," Treebeard repeated. "I did not mean that I would be leaving at this very moment, young Frodo. You are injured, and that should be tended to first. I will take you to my home, where you shall rest while I call the others. Many will come. Then we shall go."

"To Isengard?"

"Yes," Treebeard replied as the image faded. "To Isengard."

* * *

><p>"It would seem you've made quite a few enemies here, Q," Picard observed.<p>

Q smirked. "True, but I have my share of allies, as well. Rohan is now under my control, thanks to a man by the name of Grima."

"Under your control?" Picard questioned. "Completely? I doubt that. Your minions who brought me here were being pursued, and not only by my crew, or they would not have fled so hastily."

Q nodded. "Quite right, old friend. There have been a few minor difficulties. There's Eomer, the king's nephew, and Eowyn, his niece. And Hama, a simple door warden in the king's hall – and yet so much more than he appears. Look, Gandalf."

Picard turned his attention back to the ball, and another image appeared.

* * *

><p>Five figures stood in a small room, waiting. A window in one wall revealed the setting sun.<p>

"Where is he?" asked an impatient voice. Worf.

"He is late." Data. But who were they waiting for?

The door opened, and a man hurried in, out of breath. "I talked to as many of the men as I could," came a voice Picard recognized immediately. "A lot of them are with us. Some are willing to look the other way. A few aren't sure, but, once things get started, I think we can count on them."

Picard looked up at Q. "That's Mr. O' Brien."

Q shrugged. "Fancy that; I thought he was Hama."

"Q, how dare you drag more of my crew into this nonsense!"

"Oh, come now, Gandalf, he's been here as long as you have – and managed quite well, I might add. Besides, you had no objection to Galadriel's presence. Why is Hama different?"

"Now, we'll need to keep quiet," O' Brien was saying. "We don't want Wormtongue to suspect anything until it's too late. Eowyn is with her uncle, trying to convince him to listen to reason. That's probably where Wormtongue is, too, convincing him not to. She'll keep him there as long as possible."

"And then?" Dr. Crusher asked.

O' Brien shook his head. "Mutiny, I suppose. It can't be helped. As long as Grima's in control, Rohan's in danger."

"Rohan's in danger," Q repeated. "Not 'we're in danger' or 'we won't be able to rescue Gandalf.' 'Rohan's in danger.' Sound like anyone you know?"

"O' Brien knows where his loyalties lie."

"Does he, now? We'll see, Gandalf."

O' Brien glanced out the window. "Sundown. Let's go."

* * *

><p>The image faded. "Where are they going, Q?" Picard demanded.<p>

"Why, to free Eomer and Boromir, of course."

"Brooke? Where is she? What happened to her?"

"Eomer and Hama and their little group of riders found her on the borders of Fangorn Forest, right where my Uruk-Hai left her. Once they returned to Edoras, Eomer was thrown in prison by Grima, who, I'm sure, was grateful for finally having an excuse to do so. Boromir unwittingly revealed her true allegiances in Grima's presence, and Hama denounced her as a traitor, saving his own skin and creating yet another enemy for dear Boromir."

Picard knew where the entity was going. "I'm not her enemy, Q."

"She said much the same to you once," Q reminded him. "You continued to treat her as your instincts told you to – questioning her advice, doubting her intentions. And, in the end, each of you forced the other's hand. You forced her to act, and the course of action she chose forced you to act in return."

"She kidnapped Wesley," Picard translated. "Her intentions aren't in question, Q; her methods are. She's willing to go to any lengths to accomplish what she believes to be her quest, and that makes her dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Q smirked. "Of course she's dangerous. And you are dangerous, and I am dangerous. Each of your companions is dangerous, after their fashion. Gandalf's own words, old friend."

"Stop calling me that! I am _not_ your friend!"

"Aren't you? But you're missing the point, Gandalf. Brooke is dangerous to you because she is right. Her knowledge of this world outweighs yours by far, yet you cast aside her advice as leaves that are blown before the wind. You have allowed your arrogance to blind you to what is truly best for your Fellowship."

"It would be best for my _crew_ if this game were to end!"

"Au contraire, mon capitan. The game has only just begun. Thanks to Brooke, it did not end in blood in the woods of Lorien under siege. Thanks to her, you still have another chance. But she may not."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Or do you have to see it for yourself?" He gestured again towards the Palantir. Reluctantly, Picard looked.

* * *

><p>The sphere was dark. Slowly, Picard became aware of two figures in the darkness. One was seated, chained to the wall of a small cell. The other lay on the floor, bound hand and foot. After a moment, the latter stirred.<p>

"Boromir?" asked the seated figure.

"Eomer?" Brooke's voice was weak. "Is that you?"

"Yes. Are you all right?"

"No." Picard was shocked to hear the teen admit it. "No, I'm not, but there's … nothing you can do about it now. My companions … and Hama … they'll find a way to free us."

"Over Grima's dead body," Eomer remarked.

Brooke coughed weakly. "Perhaps. Eomer, you have to help them. They're our only hope … the only real hope for all Middle-Earth. You have to help them. That's all that matters."

"Why? Why are they so important?"

"I can't tell you now, Eomer. You … have to trust me."

"Men of Gondor have ever been our allies. I will do what I can for your friends, Boromir, should we find ourselves miraculously freed."

* * *

><p>"Strange that he should trust her so readily," Picard noted as the image faded.<p>

"Is it so strange? After all, he sees her as Boromir of Gondor, a noble man, and honorable, and a trusted ally. What do you see, Gandalf?"

"I see an impressionable young girl, Q, easily confused into believing that this is real."

"Still not real enough for you, Gandalf? Aragorn's death wasn't real enough? Those wounds of yours – they don't hurt enough to be real? Would Boromir's death, perhaps, be enough to convince you?"

Picard looked up. "You wouldn't kill her." But he didn't sound quite as certain as he'd hoped.

"Moi?" Q asked innocently, but then his face grew grave. "Do you want to know what happened, Gandalf? They'd reached Amon Hen – quite safely, thanks to Boromir's quick thinking when a Nazgul attacked. They had agreed to wait there for you to find them. But Frodo couldn't wait. He took the boat into the middle of the river, in plain sight of the Orcs on the other side. Boromir managed to steer the boat back to shore, but not before they were both shot with poisoned arrows. So there you have it, Gandalf; none of this is my doing. If anything kills her, it will be the misguided loyalty of Frodo Baggins, and the stubbornness of Gandalf the Grey."

Picard sank back into his chair. His decision to remain in Lothlorien had been meant to protect his crew. Instead, he had put them all in danger. "And Wesley?" he asked at last.

"If you had left him anywhere but Fangorn Forest, I would say his chances were even worse than Boromir's. But, as you saw, he was found, and cared for, and has by now drunk from the waters of the Entwash. It won't cure him, but it will delay the effects of the poison until help can reach him."

"Help? What help?"

Q smiled playfully. "What help, indeed? Indeed, Gandalf, there _is_ help coming. But I fear it will come too late for Boromir."

"Why show me this, Q?"

"As I said before, what more fitting torture for Gandalf the Grey? Your whole Fellowship in danger, Boromir dying because of you—"

"She—I—" Picard fumbled for a moment before deciding on the only argument that made sense. "She made her choice."

"Yes," Q agreed solemnly. "A choice that need not have been made, had you chosen otherwise."

"But still her choice."

"Yes. A choice freely made. And, thanks to that choice, the Ring is safe, in the hands of Peregrin Took. But at what cost, Gandalf?" he asked gravely. "At what cost?"


	16. From the Ashes

**Disclaimer: **A few days from now, Q will take me back in time to give J.R.R. Tolkien and Gene Roddenberry a few ideas. Until then, all of this belongs to them.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Sixteen<br>****From the Ashes**

Q watched in delight as O' Brien led them other down one hall after another, past one guard after another. Some ignored them completely. Others nodded as they passed. A man named Gamling handed O' Brien a set of keys. Q grinned. The amount of support O' Brien had been able to muster was impressive. They had all been waiting – just waiting – for someone – anyone – to make the first move. To their surprise, that someone had been Hama, a simple door warden.

With a single punch, Data knocked out the guard outside Eomer's cell, a rather cowardly man who had insisted that O' Brien make it appear as if he had nothing to do with the rescue. Still, cooperation was cooperation, and O' Brien needed all the help he could get, open or not. He unlocked the door and freed Eomer. Data scooped up Brooke, and they all headed down the hall and ducked inside a nearby room.

Picard looked up. "They did it, Q."

"It?" Q asked with a laugh. "What is this 'it' that you speak of, old friend? I had little doubt they would be able to free Eomer and Boromir. But now what?"

"Well done, Hama," Eomer nodded, placing a hand on O' Brien's shoulder as Data cut the ropes that bound Brooke. "Your loyalty to Rohan will be rewarded. Now we must deal with Wormtongue."

"Wormtongue isn't your only enemy," Brooke said quietly, startling everyone. "Neither is Saruman. A greater evil threatens not only Rohan … but all of Middle-Earth."

"You are referring to the Ring," Data observed.

Q laughed. Brooke had been making quite an effort to be discreet, though speaking was painful and thinking clearly was becoming more difficult.

"Fool of a Took," Brooke mumbled. "Frodo … he's in Fangorn Forest … You have to find him … before Saruman …"

"Saruman will not find the Ring in Fangorn Forest," Data pointed out. "I have it."

"What?" The change in the teenager was astounding. She sat straight up, all pain and weakness forgotten. Color returned to her face – a bright, fierce red. "_You _have It? What are you doing in Rohan? You should have kept going!"

It was Dr. Crusher who voiced what Q knew Picard was thinking. "But that would have meant leaving you and the Cap – and Gandalf and Frodo."

"Don't you understand yet! I'm not important! Frodo isn't important – not without the Ring! Even Gandalf isn't more important than the Quest! You _idiots_!"

"Take it easy, Boromir," O' Brien urged.

"Take it easy? They could be days closer to Mordor by now! Instead, they're out here chasing Uruk-Hai, and why? Gandalf is Saruman's prisoner by now. Frodo and I are both dying. And defeating Saruman will do you no good if you don't destroy the Ring!"

She would quite likely have gone on for a while longer, had she not at that moment been overcome by a wave of pain. O' Brien eased her back down. "All right, Boromir. All right. You're right; they should've kept going. But there's nothing we can do about it now."

Brooke nodded reluctantly, catching her breath. "You're right."

"They couldn't get out of Rohan safely now even if they wanted to. Saruman would find them. Our only chance now is to fight. Will you lead us, Eomer?" O' Brien looked up, then around. "Eomer?"

Q grinned. He had noticed a while ago what the others, distracted by Brooke's outburst, had failed to realize. Eomer had left.

Brooke grasped O' Brien's hand. "We have to stop him, Hama, before he gets himself killed. Take me to the Golden Hall; that's where he'll go."

O' Brien helped the teen to her feet. Brooke swayed for a moment before leaning on him for support. "You have a plan?" O' Brien asked as he half-carried her down the hall.

"I have … half a plan," Brooke admitted. "If I fail, Eomer will have to do whatever he deems best. Follow him. Reckless or not, he's your best chance."

"Follow Eomer," Q mused. "But will they? Will they follow a fictional character? Is Pippin willing to surrender leadership to a figment of Tolkien's imagination?"

"He will do what is best for the crew," Picard answered confidently.

"Like going over Caradhras? Staying in Lothlorien? Chasing Uruk-Hai? You're so focused on saving your crew that you can't see the bigger picture. Brooke can. Watch."

Brooke and O' Brien entered the Golden Hall unopposed. All attention was on Eomer, who had a sword pressed against Grima's throat. A few guards appeared ready to intervene, but no one had made a move yet. "Wait!" Brooke insisted. "This can end without bloodshed!"

Supported by O' Brien, Brooke stumbled towards Theoden's throne, where the old king sat, weak and tired. Theoden didn't even look up. But, beside him, Eowyn's eyes were fixed on Brooke.

"Fear not, Lady Eowyn," Brooke said reassuringly, though Q knew she was as uncertain as Theoden's niece about what was going to happen. "The time of darkness is past." She stepped forward, O' Brien by her side, until she was but an arm's length away from Theoden.

Q knew what she was going to do. And he would let her have her fun. But if she went too far, came too close to succeeding, he would play out his role as Saruman. He looked at Picard, who was watching Brooke intently, without any real idea of what she was about to try.

Brooke raised a hand, clutching O' Brien tightly for support with the other. "Hear me, Theoden, son of Thengel." Her voice, once again not quite her own, ringing with a power she should not have been able to muster, echoed through the hall. "Hear me. Return to us. Be free of the shadow."

Q could feel Theoden's mind struggling to respond. Brooke was close. Closer than she knew. Q knew that he, as Saruman, would have to step in soon.

But then chaos erupted. One of the guards made a move to restrain Eomer. Grima's body fell to the floor, his throat slit. The guards rushed at Eomer, but O' Brien left Brooke's side and hurried to Eomer's aid. Picard watched as his crew defended O' Brien and Eomer, but Q's attention was elsewhere, as was Brooke's. She was too weak to be of any use to Eomer, but there was something else she could do. And, even though he hoped she wouldn't, Q already knew – knew without any hint of a doubt – that she had to try.

Brooke staggered and nearly collapsed, but Eowyn stepped forward and caught her. Brooke looked up and met Eowyn's gaze. "Thank you," she said, but there was a deadly finality behind her words. She stumbled forward a pace, her whole body trembling, and fell to her knees at Theoden's feet. "Hear me," she whispered, and grabbed the old king's hand.

Q snapped his fingers and disappeared.

* * *

><p>She knew. It was pointless. Hopeless. Saruman's strength was too far beyond hers. She wasn't even Gandalf the Grey, let alone Gandalf the White. But she had to try.<p>

The moment she grasped King Theoden's hand, everything went black. The world around her was dark and empty. She looked around. Felt her body. Her wounds were gone. The pain was gone. Everything was gone – the others, the light, the world.

Then Brooke heard a laugh. _His _laugh. Hope rushed back into her once more, but with it fear. Against Saruman, she would never have stood a chance. Q, whose powers were infinitely greater, had a weakness the wizard would not have shared. A weakness she could use.

"Saruman!" she called to the darkness. And he appeared, his hair and beard a rich, flowing white, his robes long, their color changing with his every motion, with every movement of her eyes.

He smiled. "Hello, Boromir. Fancy meeting you here. What brings you to the colorful landscape of King Theoden's mind?"

He already knew. Their minds were linked together within Theoden's. But he wanted to hear it from her. "I have a proposal, Saruman."

"You're not in a position to offer much of anything."

Brooke looked up, her smirk a mirror of Q's own. "Oh, I believe I am. I can offer you some amusement."

Two chairs materialized, and Q sat down. "Go on."

Brooke took a seat next to him. "Ever since Amon Hen, I've been wondering why the Uruk-Hai took me. Frodo made sense. Gandalf, too, would certainly be worth more to you alive, could he be taken. But Boromir? They certainly don't hesitate to kill him in the book."

"But you think you have it figured out."

"You don't want me dead, but you wanted to see what the others would do without me. But Eomer spoiled your fun when he and his riders found me."

"For now."

Brooke nodded. "Then the poison is fatal."

"You knew that already."

"Yes. And I also know – and so do you – that I'll fight it with every last ounce of strength that I have. I'll still be able to help them enough to save Rohan. We both know that." She paused for effect, forcing a smile. "Would you like to see if they can do it without me?"

"You think they can?"

Brooke hesitated. But only for a moment. "Is Gandalf still your prisoner?"

"Of course."

"Then yes. I do. Because they won't abandon him. They came all this way to rescue us. Foolish, but now that loyalty will help them. They finally have a reason to fight. I believe they can defeat your armies – with the full force of Rohan united behind them."

"Meaning?"

"As long as Theoden is under your control, Rohan will be divided. Eomer will be forced to act, and the country will be plunged into civil war. Your Uruks will be able to come in and take it without much opposition. But—" she smiled, "—I think we can both agree that a fair fight is much more entertaining than a massacre."

"What are you proposing?"

He knew. They both knew. But he wanted to hear it, just the same. Brooke met his gaze. "Take me in Theoden's place."

Q didn't laugh. Didn't insult the idea. Didn't ask what made her think he would even consider such an offer. In fact, he didn't do anything she'd expected. He simply nodded. "Done."

Brooke smiled faintly. "One more thing."

"Isn't there always?"

"Back in Lorien, you promised me a favor, but you wouldn't tell me what it was."

"And before you hand yourself over to me, you'd like to know."

"Yes."

Q smiled. "Well, I suppose I can let you in on the secret." He snapped his fingers, and a tree appeared. A white tree, barren and seemingly dead. But on one small branch grew a tiny bud, a bud that, as Brooke watched, opened in flower.

Brooke's heart leapt. She looked to Q for confirmation. He nodded. But his face was grave. Sad, almost. And Brooke understood why. For a moment, she had dared to hope that Q would use that favor as an excuse to save her life.

Brooke felt the darkness creeping over her once more. Q wouldn't save her. The others couldn't save her. But maybe – just maybe – Brooke thought as her mind spiraled into the deep emptiness of Saruman's spell. Maybe they could save themselves.

* * *

><p>Q was gone. Picard glanced around the room. But all the doors were closed. He tried them all, just in case; all were locked. The windows were high and far too small to climb through, not to mention the sheer drop that would await him on the other side.<p>

Picard turned back to the Palantir, but the ball was dark once more. Brooke didn't stand a chance against Q, Picard realized, if the entity had disappeared in order to fight her. But he still doubted that Q would seriously harm her. Carefully, Picard lifted the sphere from where it lay on the table.

But instead of Rohan, a vast, barren land appeared, and, in it, a tower, high and dark. At the top was an eye. A red eye. As Picard watched in horror, the eye turned towards him. Terror filled him. He longed to disappear.

A terrible voice filled his mind. Words in a language he could not understand echoed over and over again. The eye grew steadily larger, filling the Palantir. Picard tried to look away, but his eyes refused to move. He longed to scream, but no one would hear him. No one except the strange, terrifying being that seemed to be searching his very soul.

Then he heard a laugh. But the laugh had not come from the Palantir. A hand appeared next to Picard's on the sphere, and the image changed to that of Rohan. "Having fun, Gandalf?" Q asked playfully.

Picard glared. "Am I supposed to be impressed, Q? You control this whole fantasy. Naturally, this … Palantir will respond to your command."

"True, but I am still Saruman," Q replied. "Sauron believes me to be his puppet, his loyal servant. And now he knows I have you. He will send his servants to fetch you, and they will take you to his dark tower of Barad-dur."

Barad-dur. Now the horror had a name. Picard shuddered. Brooke had said, before they had started their journey, that she would lead them to the tower of Barad-dur, if it served their purpose.

Their purpose. But Brooke's purpose was not his. She would have had the others abandon three of their companions for the sake of completing this 'quest.' Picard had decided in Lothlorien that he would rather remain in Middle-Earth with his crew alive than return to the _Enterprise _with only a few. Q wouldn't allow them to remain in Middle-Earth forever. Eventually, he would grow bored of this game. And the waiting was worth it, if it saved lives.

Picard turned back to the Palantir. The Golden Hall was quiet and still. Grima's body lay on the floor by Eomer's feet, and with it, several guards – dead or unconscious, Picard didn't know, nor did he care. Geordi, Worf, Dr. Crusher, Troi, and Data were unharmed. O' Brien had a small cut across his shoulder.

And Brooke still knelt, motionless, at Theoden's feet, the pair of them oblivious to what had just happened. All eyes were on them, waiting.

Q was watching, too. He alone knew what they were all waiting for. Dr. Crusher and Troi exchanged worried glances, but even they had no idea what was really going on. Medically, Dr. Crusher was at a loss, and Troi's mind couldn't hope to penetrate the wall Q had erected around their trio of minds – his, Theoden's, and Brooke's.

Then he snapped his fingers. And, with that one small motion, he knew, he changed the course of the game. Theoden's presence slowly faded from his mind. Brooke's consciousness – what was left of it, at least, amid the havoc the poison was wreaking within her – was slowly engulfed by his spell.

The physical result was gradual. King Theoden began to appear younger. Wrinkles faded from his face. His eyes grew bright and fiery. Grey vanished from his hair, leaving it a youthful shade of gold.

What little color remained in Brooke's face faded to a pale, death-like grey. Her bright grey eyes grew dim, and streaks of light grey – almost silver – appeared in her hair.

Dr. Crusher rushed forward to try to break the bond between Brooke and the king, but Q repelled her with a thought, sending the doctor flying across the room. She got to her feet quickly, a little dazed, but ready to try again. But O' Brien held her back. "Wait," he whispered.

Picard, who had been uncharacteristically silent during the whole ordeal, spoke up suddenly. "Enough, Q. Let her go."

Q shook his head. "Not yet."

"Q, what kind of perverse pleasure do you get out of this?"

Q looked Picard straight in the eye. "None at all."

"Then why—"

"Do you think this was _my _idea?" Q snapped, and the Palantir flared to a brilliant shade of red. Picard stared in shocked silence as the entity composed himself, and the image in the sphere returned to the Golden Hall. "What a low opinion you must have of me, old friend. As a matter of fact, this was not my idea at all. You see, I do have a certain respect for Boromir – enough, at least, to allow her to choose her own fate."

Q snapped his fingers, and the trance in Rohan was broken. Brooke slumped to the floor by Theoden's feet. Theoden stood up in surprise as Troi and Dr. Crusher rushed forward to examine Brooke.

"Is she dead, Q?" Picard asked.

"No," Q said with a slight smile. "And if you'd waited a moment, Dr. Crusher would have told you the same thing – and that her pulse is weak and thready and her breathing shallow."

"He's alive," Dr. Crusher reported, right on cue. "Barely. Pulse is weak, thready. Breathing's shallow."

"In a way, she got the better end of the deal," Q remarked, ignoring Dr. Crusher. "She knew she was dying, anyway. She had nothing to lose, old friend."

"You mentioned hope before," Picard ventured. "Help that may come too late for Brooke. What were you speaking of?"

Q laughed. "A favor. Since Boromir didn't allow you to put an end to our game in Lothlorien, I promised her a favor – a favor I have granted, Gandalf."

"Then you won't let her die?"

Q smiled. "Believe me, Gandalf, when I tell you that the favor I have given her is worth more to her than her own life. Look."

He handed the Palantir to Picard, and another image appeared. A tree. A white tree, its branches bare except for a single, small flower. Then the image faded. Picard looked up. "I don't understand, Q."

Q nodded. "I know. But Brooke did. 'Oft hope is born when all's forlorn,' 'tis said. Dawn is ready to break in Middle-Earth. But the funny thing about dawn, Gandalf … is that the night has to come first."


	17. The Hall is Rented

**Disclaimer: **_Star Trek _is not mine. _The Lord of the Rings _is not mine. Unless, of course, I happened to get them for Christmas ... (runs out to tree to check) ... Nope. Still not mine.

**Author's Note: **Merry Christmas, everyone! I'm going to be visiting family for the next week, so both my free time and internet access will be more sporadic. Updates may be a bit fewer and further between until the start of the new year, but I'll try to keep up as well as I can. Thank you for your understanding.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<br>****The Hall is Rented**

It took all the self-restraint Q could muster not to burst out laughing. Picard's eyes never left the Palantir as the pawns in Rohan slowly found their places on the chessboard. Theoden, without the burden of Wormtongue's advice, turned to Eomer for counsel, and Eomer was more than eager to give it. It was decided that the Rohirrim, led by Theoden and Eomer, would ride against Isengard the next morning.

With them would go Data, Worf, Geordi, and Dr. Crusher. At O' Brien's suggestion, Troi was to be sent to Fangorn Forest. Theoden was skeptical, at first, about the possibility of the Ents existing, to say nothing of helping them. But the idea, O' Brien had been quick to point out, had been Boromir's, and Theoden now had every reason to trust Boromir.

In any case, Troi was not under Theoden's command and was quite free to go to Fangorn alone if she had wished to do so. But O' Brien had also suggested – he was doing quite a lot of suggesting, Q mentioned to Picard – that a representative of Rohan should also be sent. After a lengthy family debate, Theoden agreed to allow Eowyn to accompany Troi. It was a compromise on both ends, Q pointed out to an uninterested Picard. Eowyn would have preferred to ride with the Rohirrim. Theoden and Eomer would much rather have had her remain at Edoras.

Picard didn't care. And in that matter, at least, Q shared his sentiment. In the end, it wasn't particularly important whether Eowyn rode with the Rohirrim, went to Fangorn, or remained at Edoras. The Ents were planning to march against Isengard, anyway; it didn't really matter whether Troi and Eowyn found them first. But, while he didn't particularly care where Eowyn ended up, the decision to send Troi to Fangorn was, in fact, significant.

"She was the reasonable choice," Q pointed out. "But not for any reason outside Middle-Earth. She knows nothing about the Ents. Sam would have volunteered to go and look for Frodo, but Hama suggested Legolas. An Elf. Sending an Elf to go talk to some trees … a very Middle-Earthen idea, isn't it, Gandalf?"

Picard's gaze left the Palantir only long enough to glare at Q. "Her telepathic abilities make her the perfect choice to negotiate with these Ents, Q. O' Brien knew that."

"Ah, but to whom did he suggest it, Gandalf? Did he suggest the errand to Pippin, his commanding officer … or to his king?"

Picard ignored the comment. Q grinned. O' Brien had, in fact, suggested the idea to Theoden, pretty much ignoring Data completely. Was it simply for show – was he trying not to arouse suspicion? After all, he wasn't even supposed to know Data. Or had the time he had spent in Rohan had some effect on him?

The Palantir grew dim as those in the Golden Hall went their separate ways – Theoden and Eomer to gather their forces, O' Brien and the rest of the _Enterprise _crew to the armory, except for Dr. Crusher, who remained with Eowyn to care for Brooke. Picard looked up questioningly at Q, who grinned playfully.

Then he snapped his fingers, and Picard was gone. Not completely gone, although that would have been just as simple. He was only on top of the tower of Orthanc, but that was quite far enough away.

Only as he began to laugh did Q realize just how much effort it had taken to restrain his amusement. They didn't have a clue! None of them. Not even Brooke, although she had been close. If she'd had time to mull it over, she may have realized. As it was, she'd only had a few seconds between glimpsing the White Tree and surrendering herself to his spell. Even she didn't grasp the full implications of what she had done.

What she had done. Q smiled, still not quite believing that she had, in fact, done it. On the surface, it was absurd. She had offered herself in the place of a fictional character, not even a real person.

But what she had done had given the others a chance. He could have called her bluff. She would not have been able to help the others enough to save Rohan had he not accepted her offer. Despite her best efforts, Rohan would have erupted into civil war. The others, even with her guidance, couldn't have done a thing to stop it.

But he had accepted her offer, anyway, because it intrigued him. She had such confidence that the others would manage without her. Why? She'd insulted them. Criticized their decisions. Ruined their plans. And yet she was still convinced that they could defeat him.

Q lifted the Palantir from where it had fallen when Picard had vanished. A room appeared, and a bed. Gently, Dr. Crusher and Eowyn lay Brooke down. The teen lay motionless, except for an occasional shiver. Her eyes stared sightlessly, unfocused, into the distance. Her shallow breathing barely moved the blanket they laid over her. Eowyn reached over and gently closed Brooke's eyes. If not for the death-like ashenness of her skin and the occasional compulsive shudder, she might have simply been sleeping, her mind lost in a dream.

A dream. Yes, that was as good a word as any, Q decided, for what she was experiencing. Not a nightmare, surely. No pain. No fear. She was not aware enough to experience either. She could perceive only shadows of the world, a world no longer real to her mind. She was lost in the darkness, conscious of neither hope nor fear, neither pain nor joy.

Q passed his hand over the Palantir, silently allowing Brooke's mind to drift into the complete, absolute darkness of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep. Had she been conscious, he knew, she would have thanked him; she had surely expected far worse, expected to find herself in the state Theoden had experienced, neither fully asleep nor fully awake. She had expected him to torment her with visions of what was happening, events she could do nothing to change, because that was exactly what Saruman would have done.

But Q wasn't Saruman. Not towards her. Instead of dragging her forcibly from the stage and chaining her to a seat in the audience, he was graciously allowing her to leave the theatre altogether. And Brooke accepted willingly, not struggling at all as her mind slipped into darkness. She had agreed to this. And Q had proven a more merciful captor than she had dared to imagine.

Q lay the Palantir down gently. She had earned his mercy. She had done her part, played her role. It was now up to the other players to determine whether their act would be a blazing success or an abysmal failure.

And opening night would come sooner than they expected.

* * *

><p>After a visit to the armory, O' Brien led the others to the room where Dr. Crusher now sat alone by Brooke's side. "How is she?" O' Brien asked, although the doctor's wearied expression provided enough of an answer.<p>

Dr. Crusher shook her head. "I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can do for her. I've cleaned her wounds and bandaged them, but she was poisoned. I doubt she would have survived even if she hadn't done … whatever it was she did in the Golden Hall."

"Did that make it worse?"

Dr. Crusher sighed. "Well, it certainly didn't help. It's like her body isn't fighting the poison any more. There's no medical explanation for it."

O' Brien shook his head. "If you meddle with the stuff of wizards, you won't get a medical explanation. Theoden was under Saruman's power. His body, I suppose, but, more importantly, his mind. When Brooke took his place, Saruman took over – completely. He'll keep her this way until the poison kills her."

"He won't have to wait long," Dr. Crusher admitted resignedly. "If not for Saruman, she may have been able to hold out longer, but now … I don't think she'll last more than a day or two, not unless she starts fighting."

O' Brien took a seat by Brooke's side. Her skin was a pale, deathly grey, cold but damp with sweat. She didn't respond at all as he gently placed his hand over hers. "Is she conscious at all? Aware of us?"

It was Troi who answered. "No. I can't sense her presence at all. It's as if she's somewhere else entirely, and only her body is here."

"That's odd," O' Brien mumbled. "She should be at least somewhat aware. Theoden was. He could still hear, still see what was happening."

"Maybe Saruman wanted it that way," Geordi pointed out. "If Theoden couldn't do anything, he would have been useless. Saruman wanted a puppet. He needed someone who could still give orders, at least enough to make Wormtongue's orders seem valid."

"See, that's just the thing," O' Brien continued. "Why would he give that up? What makes Boromir so important that Saruman would accept him in Theoden's place?" He shook his head. "Brooke told me she had 'half a plan.' I don't think this was part of the plan, and, if it was, I don't think she thought it would actually work, because it doesn't make sense. Why would Saruman give up his hold on Rohan?"

"Does it matter?" Worf asked.

"Maybe he's toying with us," Dr. Crusher suggested. "Maybe he wants to make us think we have a chance, so we come and attack him, and then he has us all in the same place at the same time."

"That doesn't sound like Saruman," O' Brien muttered. "Before you came, he was perfectly content to sit back, let his Uruk-Hai go on a rampage, and watch Rohan fall apart from the inside out. Why, as soon as you came, would it suddenly become a … oh, no."

"What is it?" Troi asked.

"A game," O' Brien realized. He looked up at Data. "I think Saruman is Q."

"Q is already Celeborn," Troi pointed out.

"You really think he'd let that stop him from taking on another role?"

"Well, no, but … why Saruman? Why not Sauron?"

O' Brien shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe this is more fun. Maybe he's Sauron, too. In any case, it makes sense. Boromir isn't more valuable to Saruman than Theoden is, but Brooke is more valuable to Q. Maybe she had information that would have helped us. Maybe we'd have had a better chance with her advice. Q knows she's the only one of us who knows up from down in this world. I'll bet this is a lot more entertaining for him without her feeding us information."

"It also explains why the Uruk-Hai took her in the first place," Geordi offered. "Frodo – Wesley – because they assumed he still had the Ring. The Captain because Gandalf's a powerful wizard – or because Q wanted to toy with him. And Brooke not because she's Boromir, but because she's Brooke."

"It does make sense," Dr. Crusher agreed. "It also means that, no matter how close to death she may seem, she'll be fine. Q won't hurt her."

"He doesn't have to," O' Brien said quietly. "He just has to not save her."

"He won't let her die."

"And why not? Because she helped him? Because he likes her? We're talking about Q! Who knows what he'll do? Has any part of this at all been predictable? Why should that change now?"

"In any case, there is little we can do to alter our predicament," Data pointed out. "Whether we are facing Saruman or Q is irrelevant."

"Maybe it isn't," O' Brien disagreed. "Saruman we could predict – at least to some degree. I've been here for more than two weeks; I have some idea of how these Uruk-Hai work. But if Q is in control, not Saruman, then we have no way of knowing what he'll do."

"So what _do_ we do?" Troi asked.

"What we were planning to do. We follow Theoden and Eomer. You and Eowyn go to Fangorn, as planned. But we keep an eye out for anything unusual, anything that might give us some hint about what Q is planning to do, even if it seems unlikely. And we assume nothing."

Data nodded. "Agreed."

"And we get some sleep, if we can," O' Brien added. "We'll need it."

* * *

><p>One by one, the others left, leaving only O' Brien and Dr. Crusher. Dr. Crusher would probably sleep there, O' Brien reasoned, unwilling to leave her patient. But he, too, remained by Brooke's side, as if by his presence, he could provide at least a little comfort.<p>

They owed her their lives, if they survived – that much O' Brien knew for certain. He didn't know what would have happened in the Golden Hall if Theoden hadn't regained his senses, but it couldn't have been good. Thanks to Brooke, Theoden and Eomer would lead Rohan together.

Gently, O' Brien took one of the teenager's ice cold hands in both of his. She had probably known – better than he knew even now – the consequences of what she had done. She had known what she was doing. And that made it easier – at least a little – to see her like this. She had known. The choice had been hers.

"She must seem so helpless to you," Dr. Crusher said quietly. "So … vulnerable. Weak."

O' Brien looked up. "Are you saying she's not?"

Dr. Crusher managed a wry smile. "Don't be fooled. I was. We all were. And we're paying the price for it."

"What do you mean?" There was a note in the doctor's voice – something akin to disdain or even disgust – that caught O' Brien by surprise.

"This isn't the first time she's saved us. She saved our lives in Moria, risked her own life so that we could escape. We trusted her after that. She got us safely to Lothlorien, even though she'd been badly hurt. I was beginning to think that maybe we'd been wrong not to trust her. Maybe she wasn't as dangerous as we'd thought.

"The Captain made a decision – a decision she didn't agree with. He decided that we shouldn't cooperate with Q's game, that we would remain in Lothlorien. Brooke disagreed. Looking back, maybe she was right … but that doesn't justify what she did. She should have talked to us, waited for things to cool down a little first. We were all upset; we wanted some peace, at least for a little while. After a day or two … who knows? Maybe the Captain would have been willing to listen.

"But Brooke didn't want to wait. She kidnapped Wesley. A whole week, we chased her down that river, and, along the way, I decided that she'd simply gone insane. Riker's death. The battle. Her fight with the Balrog. The stress of it all would have driven most people mad, and Brooke's a child, after all. You and I – we've had years of experience dealing with battles and stress. We signed up for it. She'd only fought Uruk-Hai on the holodeck. So even though she'd kidnapped my son … I didn't hate her. Didn't blame her, really. She was mentally ill … just another patient.

"But coming here, seeing her reactions, her decisions … she's not insane – unless her insanity lies in the fact that she accepts the reality of this world without question. Based on that, her decisions make sense. Kidnap the Ringbearer? Certainly, if it means the Quest will continue. Sacrifice yourself for a fictional character? If he's the King of Rohan, why not? Leave your Captain and two children in the hands of the Uruk-Hai, like she would have had us do? Well, as long as the Quest is completed, it doesn't matter, right? That's what makes her dangerous. That's why we shouldn't have trusted her. That's why she doesn't deserve your pity."

O' Brien nodded. "Maybe. But it's also why there's still a chance – however slim – that we'll survive this war with Saruman. By surrendering herself to Saruman – or Q – she gave us a fighting chance." He gave Brooke's hand a gentle squeeze. "You don't have to like her. You don't have to trust her. But would it hurt to be at least a little grateful for what she's done?"

Dr. Crusher looked away. "Because of 'what she's done,' my son is lost somewhere in some forest, probably injured, maybe dying. She may have saved us, but she condemned him. How am I supposed to be grateful for that?" She rose to leave. "You see her as I did after Moria. Maybe it's a blessing, after all, that she won't have the chance to ruin that image for you."

* * *

><p>The darkness was unbelievable. He had never seen such absolute darkness. There was always light on the <em>Enterprise<em>. Even at night, there was always a glow from some computer console, and full light was only two words away: "Computer, lights."

But here, as his companion woke him after only an hour or so of sleep, he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing. Their feeble attempt at a fire had been doused immediately by the torrents of rain that had begun the previous night and lasted all through the day. Now the rain was dying down, but everything was still wet. And the darkness was still absolute.

The two of them groped about in the darkness, gathering their supplies. Each had a sword, and perhaps three days' worth of food remained. It would be enough. His companion was fairly certain that they were within a day's journey of their destination, and from there, it was only one more day, if they survived the journey.

He fastened his sword to his horse's saddle and mounted carefully. He had slipped the last time. Everything was wet and slippery, his companion had been quick to point out. And he hadn't been embarrassed. He was nearly convinced it was impossible to be embarrassed around such a grave, gentle man whose very presence seemed to put him at ease. But he mounted carefully, nonetheless, because here, in the absolute middle of nowhere, they couldn't afford for either of them to be hurt.

Where, exactly, they were, he didn't even know any more. In the light, the rugged mountain terrain stretched to the horizon, and probably farther. If they hadn't spent day after day riding through the mountainous landscape, he wouldn't have known that they had gone anywhere at all after the first day. Aside from an occasional river or the rare shrub or bird, it all looked exactly the same.

But, then, he reminded himself, they weren't there for the scenery. Need drove them. A need that neither of them fully understood, but neither could deny. A need that forced them to press onwards at reckless speeds along the dangerous path, stopping only when one more minute's journey would have meant them both falling from their saddles out of pure exhaustion. They were both tired. Cold. Wet. Miserable. Scenery should have been the least of his worries.

Still, he wondered as they rode on again into the darkness, would it really have been too much trouble for Tolkien to add a little more variety, a little more color, to this part of Middle-Earth?

Watching in the Palantir, Q grinned playfully. By this time the next day, both travelers would look back with longing on these days of boredom.


	18. Opening Night

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. Not in the mood to come up with anything clever.

**Author's Note: **Sorry this took so long. Might be a little longer than normal before the next one, too. Our holiday got thrown a bit askew by a death in the family, so just bear with me a little longer and, I promise, I'll get back to posting regularly.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<br>****Opening Night**

Q snapped his fingers, and Picard appeared, soaking wet, water dripping all over the floor from his robes. Q grinned. "Tell me, Gandalf, is it raining outside?"

Picard glared. "What do you want, Q?"

"Tsk, tsk, such ingratitude," Q scolded playfully. "After all, I quite possibly just saved your life."

"How? Was lightning about to strike me?"

"No. Sauron was about to send a Nazgul to retrieve you. I convinced him that it was in all of our best interests that you remain with me. You see, I'm more persuasive than he is. What with you being a wizard and all that, I have a better chance of convincing you to aid us by reasoning with you than he does by force. At least, that's what I told him. I, of course, am not Saruman, and know better than to think you would just—"

"What is it that you want?"

Q laughed. "Very clever, Gandalf."

"I'm serious, Q."

"Oh, I know. It wouldn't be clever at all if you weren't. You want to know what I want, what bit of information or aid you could give me, because you're not so sure your Fellowship can succeed. You want to know what you could offer me in exchange for their safety if the battle starts to go ill. Unfortunately for you, you have nothing of value to offer."

"I have information."

"Knowledge that surpasses mine?" Q scoffed, though he knew exactly where Picard was going.

"Knowledge that surpasses Saruman's. You've been playing based on what Saruman knows, more or less. You told your Uruk-Hai to capture Wesley because he had the Ring, and those orders didn't change when Data took it. You could have changed those orders in their minds, but Saruman couldn't, so you didn't. You know that the Ents are coming, but you haven't sent an army out against them, because Saruman wouldn't have known. And Saruman—" he smiled, "—wouldn't know that the Ring is now in Rohan. His orders would include nothing about bringing it to him."

"Or about bringing the bearer and his companions here alive and unharmed," Q added. "An interesting plan, Gandalf, but it has two flaws. First of all, if we're assuming that I am, in fact, Saruman, then, yes, I know none of these things – but neither do you. Even if I give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you left Frodo in Fangorn to be found by the Ents, you have no way of knowing that they're coming here. And, yes, you may have noticed that Frodo no longer had the Ring when you left him, but you have no way of knowing where, in fact, it is. You only know now because of the Palantir, which, to be quite honest, was originally intended to be a line of communication between people who had one of the seven stones in their possession. If I were really Saruman, it would have shown me – and you – only what you saw when you looked while I was gone."

"Sauron," Picard nodded.

"Precisely. And so, you see, you have no information worth offering."

"And the second flaw?"

Q grinned. "Your proposal only works under the assumption that I am still capable of giving orders to my Uruk-Hai. Which would imply that they are still here, waiting for orders. In fact, the majority of them – those who were not sent to pursue your Fellowship – left here the day before yesterday … with orders to burn Edoras to the ground and leave no one alive."

Picard seized the Palantir from where Q had left it on the table. "Show me what's happening!" he demanded.

Q shrugged causally. "Oh, very well."

* * *

><p>The harsh ringing of a bell woke O' Brien from where he had fallen asleep in a chair by Brooke's side. He woke Dr. Crusher immediately, not particularly surprised that she had, in fact, returned. Whatever distrust or blame lay between her and Brooke, she was a doctor, and Brooke was a patient. Deep down, it was that simple.<p>

Together, they rushed out into the hall, and were met by Troi, Geordi, and Worf. Troi and Geordi were hurriedly putting their armor on; Worf had apparently slept in his. "Where's Data?" Dr. Crusher asked.

"He was with Eomer earlier," Geordi offered. "Since he doesn't need to sleep, he went to help gather the Roharrim."

"Rohirrim," O' Brien corrected. "They'll be outside in the stables, then. Let's go." They finished putting on their armor, then followed O' Brien outside.

They found Data in the stables, and with him Eomer. "What news, my lord?" O' Brien asked without a second thought. After more than two weeks, a "my lord" was as instinctive as a "sir" had been on the _Enterprise_.

"The Uruks are less than a league away," Eomer replied. "We're to ride out, hopefully gain time for the women and children to take shelter within the city." He turned to Troi. "I fear your errand to Fangorn is now impossible. You would not make it through their lines. Ride with us, if you will, or stay with those who are remaining to protect the women and children. The choice is yours – all of you. But choose swiftly. We ride now."

O' Brien was already untying his horse. "Gimli, Merry, Legolas, and I will ride with you," Data replied. "Sam will be of more assistance here, when we return. He is a healer."

Four horses were brought, and Troi, Worf, Geordi, and Data mounted. O' Brien motioned to Data, who rode over beside him as they prepared to leave. "Troi may not be able to make it through their lines," O' Brien said in a low voice. "But you can."

"I believe your confidence is unwarranted. According to the available—"

"Sir, Wesley's told me about Brooke's holodeck program. One of the hardest things to program into the computer, he said, was the Ring's ability to make you invisible. You should put it on and leave. The Uruk-Hai won't bother with a stray horse."

"The rest of the crew—"

"Won't survive at all unless we get help. Go to Fangorn. Get the Ents. Come back. We'll try to be alive when you get back."

They rode out into the rain. In the clamor and the darkness, no one noticed a single horse, now apparently riderless, break away from the group and gallop off into the night. No one except Troi, who had been watching O' Brien closely. "What did you tell him?" she asked amid the pounding of the rain.

O' Brien looked away. "What I had to."

"And he believed you?"

"Why not?" He shook his head. "He thinks we'll still be here when he returns."

* * *

><p>"Nothing happened," Picard observed.<p>

The comment came as a surprise to Q, who realized that several important things had, in fact, just occurred. "To what are you referring, Gandalf?"

"When he put the Ring on … all it did was make him invisible. I expected something more, after all the fuss that's being made over this Ring, after all these creatures who are trying to find it. I thought it would do something more than – What is so amusing?"

Q, of course, was laughing hysterically. "My dear Gandalf, what did you expect? He's only been wearing the Ring for a few seconds. And it was never his intention to do anything other than disappear."

"So … he can control it?"

"No. Not fully. But, for now, he has no ambitions for the Ring to feed off of. One could say he's very Hobbit-like in his intentions. But that won't protect him forever. And it won't save your Fellowship."

"You don't think he'll return in time?"

"Absolutely not. Not unless help comes from elsewhere first." He smiled. "Hama knew that."

"It wasn't about the Ents," Picard realized. "It was about the Ring. The Quest. And Troi knew, and she didn't stop him!"

Q shrugged. "Why should she wish Pippin to share their fate?"

"They're not going to die."

"Perhaps. Perhaps Hama was a little premature. But he knew he wouldn't have the opportunity again, so he took it. Tricking your commanding officer," Q mused. "I'm sure that's against some sort of Starfleet regulation. What was it you said? 'O' Brien knows where his loyalties lie'?"

"He may be unstable, a result of being on his own for so long in your little fantasy."

"Ah, of course. He doesn't want Middle-Earth to be overrun by Sauron – He must be insane!"

"Enough, Q!"

"Quite right, old friend. Why quarrel when we can watch the show! Look."

* * *

><p>The sun was beginning to rise behind them, providing enough light for O' Brien to see the Uruk-Hai in the distance. They were dark against the pale light of the morning, now that the rain had stopped. They looked like ants – enormous ants – moving slowly but steadily towards the group of riders.<p>

Theoden's strategy was a desperate one. Their best riders had been sent out in the hope of wearing the Uruk-Hai down, buying enough time for a reasonable defense to be mustered in the city itself. Theoden and Eomer rode at the front, O' Brien at Eomer's side.

He wasn't even sure what he was fighting for any more, O' Brien realized as the Uruk-Hai drew steadily closer. The hope that any of them would survive, save perhaps Data, was slowly fading. They would probably all die here, standing between the Uruk-Hai and Edoras. Between bloodthirsty killers and innocent townspeople.

And that was enough. Somehow, even though he now knew it wasn't real at all, that these characters had been created by Q and could vanish just as easily with one word from the entity, somehow, none of that mattered. Perhaps it wasn't so much _what _you died for as _how_ you died for it, whether you died believing in what you were fighting for.

"For Rohan!" O' Brien cried loudly, raising his sword high. Others quickly took up the call. "For Rohan! For Rohan!"

And, with that cry, they charged headlong into the lines of the Uruk-Hai.

At first, O' Brien tried to keep the others in sight. But it was impossible. All but the closest riders seemed lost in a sea of black. He and Eomer rode together, each defending the other. One stroke after another, they carved deeper into the Uruk-Hai's forces. But, even as they did, the gaps were filled behind them, leaving them no escape.

* * *

><p>Picard watched the battle intently. Unlike O' Brien, he could see everyone. He was aware of every rider who fell to an Uruk-Hai's sword, and he knew their numbers were dwindling. But his crew was still alive. In fact, the only casualty as far as they were concerned had been Worf's horse, and the Klingon seemed much more comfortable on his feet, anyway.<p>

The battle wore on, and the riders, now fewer in number, were forced closer together, herded nearer to each other. "To me! To me!" Theoden's voice rang out above the clamor. The riders – perhaps three dozen or so – rallied to his side.

"My lord, we must retreat!" Eomer called.

"He's right, my lord," O' Brien agreed. "We've done all we can here."

"Retreat!" Theoden ordered. "Retreat!"

"Ride together!" Eomer shouted, and, once more, they charged into the wall of Uruk-Hai. At the absolute last moment, Worf leapt up behind Troi on her horse, and they rode out with the others.

Back towards the city they rode, amid a rain of arrows. One bounced off Worf's armor. Another whizzed past Geordi's head. Some struck the horses, which fell, leaving their riders defenseless as they scrambled from the saddles in time to find themselves face-to-face with the Uruk-Hai.

* * *

><p>O' Brien sheathed his sword as they rode, urging his horse onward. Edoras seemed so far away now, and the Uruk-Hai, though slower, weren't out of range yet.<p>

Suddenly, Eomer was no longer beside him. O' Brien jerked on his reins, turning his horse in time to see that Eomer's horse had fallen, an arrow in its back. Eomer struggled free of his saddle, but the Uruk-Hai were closing. O' Brien snapped his reins, and his horse raced to where Eomer now stood, sword drawn.

O' Brien reached him just as the Uruk-Hai did. Eomer struck a few blows before finding a moment to leap onto O' Brien's horse. But even as he did, a sword plunged through O' Brien's armor and deep into his right thigh. Eomer struck the Uruk-Hai, and a head dropped to the ground. O' Brien grasped the reins tightly, fighting for control of his terrified horse. At last, the creature responded, and rode back in the direction of Edoras.

* * *

><p>Picard finally relaxed slightly as Eomer and O' Brien, the last to arrive, passed through the city gates. The women and children – and Dr. Crusher, who was now quite busy – had gathered inside the Golden Hall. Eowyn hurried out to meet her brother and uncle. "We have everyone gathered here, with food and supplies."<p>

"Well done," Theoden nodded. "Saruman's army is close. Go and join the others inside."

"Uncle—"

"Eowyn, please do this. Take refuge with the others. If it goes ill with us, they will need your spirit."

"Yes, my lord." Eowyn turned away reluctantly.

"Go with her, Hama," Eomer instructed. "Have you leg tended to, and return if you can. We shall have need of men such as you."

O' Brien knew better than to argue. He had avoided dismounting because of the pain, and, now that he tried to ease himself off his horse, his leg gave way beneath him. Eomer, who had already dismounted, helped him inside. "Thank you, Hama," he said as they entered the Golden Hall. "If we survive—"

"My lord, you owe me nothing. I did what anyone would do for a friend. If we survive, there is only one thing I would ask, something I am certain Boromir already asked of you. Give whatever aid you can to his companions. With them lies the only hope for Middle-Earth."

"I noticed one did not return among us."

"Pippin. He was not slain. He was sent on an errand, one only he could accomplish."

"He could not possibly have passed by the Uruk-Hai unnoticed."

"I cannot speak of such things now. But later, if—"

"Are you all right?" Dr. Crusher's worried voice interrupted O' Brien's thoughts. "Lie down, now."

O' Brien smiled faintly. "We'll talk later. Go, Eomer. Our people need you."

* * *

><p>"<em>Our <em>people," Q repeated as Eomer returned to the others. "_Our_ people. Not 'your people, one of whom I'm impersonating. _Our _people."

Picard wasn't in the mood. "Anything else would have sounded suspicious. We all played our parts among the Elves in Lothlorien in order to avoid suspicion."

"Yes, and you did a remarkably lousy job of it," Q commented. "If Hama is, in fact, acting, he must have received more training than the rest of you. What's the matter, old friend? Don't they normally teach Starfleet officers how to impersonate fictional characters? Where, oh where, did Hama pick up his talent?" He grinned. "You _do _know that you can't actually stare someone to death, right? Particularly not an immortal someone?"

"This is not amusing, Q."

"From your point of view, no. Death isn't a particularly amusing prospect. But," he added, "it isn't always the worst possible fate, either."


	19. From the Grey Twilight

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**Author's Note: **I should be able to get back to posting regularly now. Thank you all very much for your patience.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<br>****From the Grey Twilight**

The day drew on, the sun sinking lower and lower into the sky. O' Brien, his leg bandaged but still throbbing terribly, stood by Eomer's side, watching. The outer edges of the city had been set ablaze. The Uruk-Hai's orders were quite clear – leave nothing. They were in no hurry.

"There are several companies of men at various places in the city," Eomer explained. "Hopefully, they can slow the Uruk-Hai a little. But, eventually, they will reach us."

"They could have already," O' Brien noted. "They're being very … odd. Strangely meticulous. What are they waiting for?"

"They're surrounding us." Eomer nodded towards the edge of the city. "Cutting off every escape. Now that they're here, Saruman wants the job done right. They'll leave no one alive. Every man, woman, and child, all slaughtered, unless some help arrives."

"What help can we expect?"

"Very little, unless the Halfling Pippin succeeds in his errand. Messengers were sent last night, but they were sent with the message that we were about to march against Isengard, not find ourselves under attack."

O' Brien nodded. "So we're alone."

Eomer nodded gravely. "For now … yes. We're alone."

* * *

><p>Picard watched the Uruk-Hai's advance with increasing interest. "Curious," he remarked at last.<p>

"What is?" Q asked, although he had a fairly good idea what Picard was referring to.

"Their speed … or, rather, their lack of it. Their attention to detail. They way they stop and regroup every time a random group of people shoots a few arrows at them."

Q shrugged. "Their orders were to be thorough. And there was a reason for it, Gandalf, lest you think that I _want_ your little Fellowship to have enough time for help to arrive. If they left any loose ends – any at all – your resourceful little band would find a way to escape, perhaps at the very last moment. Instead, that last moment may come a little later, but, when it does, there will be no escape – for anyone."

Q grinned as Picard's expression hardened once more. It was a chance that Saruman would have taken, had he suspected that the Ring was, in fact, in Rohan. But, of course, Saruman wouldn't have known that there would be a price for his lack of haste.

* * *

><p>The Uruk-Hai drew closer and closer. O' Brien watched with Theoden and Eomer as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon. "They will reach us sometime in the night," Theoden said quietly. "We will form a defense around the Golden Hall, and, when necessary, take shelter within its walls."<p>

O' Brien nodded. The King had said 'when,' not 'if.' The end would come. It was only a matter of when, and whether or not help would arrive in time.

"My lord," came a voice from behind, surprising them both. Geordi stood there, with Worf at his side.

Theoden smiled warmly. "Hello, Merry. You Halflings are a sturdier folk than you appear; you fought well earlier."

Geordi bowed deeply. "Thank you, my lord. I came to ask your permission to lead a small group against the Uruk-Hai. We'll go out, do as much damage as possible, and come back if we are still able." Theoden looked hesitant, but Geordi continued. "My lord, every time they stop and regroup, we buy ourselves more time for help to come. All I'm asking for is a chance to help."

Theoden at last nodded. "You have my leave. Go, and may good fortune be with you."

"I shall accompany you," Eomer offered. "I grow restless here, waiting for battle to come. I would rather go and meet it, even if it means I go to my death."

Worf nodded, and O' Brien thought, for a moment, that he saw admiration in the Klingon's eyes. "That much, at least, we have in common."

O' Brien opened his mouth to volunteer, as well, but Eomer shook his head. "No, Hama, you should remain here. If we do not return, there is no one I would trust more to stand by my King's side and protect him."

O' Brien nodded his gratitude and bowed deeply, well aware of the irony. The man whom Eomer trusted most to protect the King of Rohan wouldn't have even known his name three weeks before. And Geordi – what was he doing risking his own life, and Worf's, when there were plenty of fictional characters to do the job? Even Doctor Crusher, who had accused Brooke of acting as if this world were real, was treating soldiers for very real injuries, while they shed very real blood. They were taking refuge within real walls, preparing for a real attack by real enemies who would not hesitate to kill them. And if they died, O' Brien had no doubt that their death would be real, as real as the pain in his leg was now. They had no choice, now that it came down to it. No choice but to treat this world as real, because that was the only way they would survive.

* * *

><p>"They're cooperating," Q commented. "If you survive this, you might want to consider promoting this Hama fellow. He set an example, and the others are following."<p>

"They're trying to survive."

"By volunteering for a suicide mission?"

"Their strategy makes perfect sense given your rather strange choice of tactics."

Q laughed, and both of them turned back to the Palantir. Eomer, Geordi, and Worf passed silently through the deserted city, towards the light of the Uruk-Hai's fires. Together, they crept closer and closer, unnoticed amid the darkness. At last, they were near enough that only the remains of a house stood between them and the Uruk-Hai.

Eomer gave a loud shout, and the three of them raced forwards, swords drawn. But, even as they did, the Palantir went dark, and then two riders, barely visible in the sunset, appeared amid a rugged mountain path. "What?" Picard demanded. "Q!"

"So sorry, old friend, but I thought you should see this," Q grinned.

Both riders' faces were hidden by the hoods of their cloaks, which were gray and stained by the rain and dirt. It was only lightly drizzling now, but that drizzle was quickly becoming a light fog. The horses slowed. One of them whinnied; the other shook its mane, as if trying to brush away the mist. Q knew better. It wasn't something as corporeal as fog that troubled the horses.

"The horses feel it, too," said one of the riders quietly. "Fear. Dread. They know what awaits us."

"Faramir, I do not – I cannot – ask you to follow me any farther."

Picard nearly jumped; he couldn't possibly have failed to recognize the voice. "Q! Is this some sort of trick? An illusion?"

"Why, Gandalf, I'm hurt that trickery would be your first assumption!" He wasn't, of course. He had expected exactly that reaction from Jean-Luc Picard. He gestured towards the ball that Picard held more tightly than ever. "A Palantir, Gandalf – even one under my control – does not lie."

"But … he died!"

"That's it? 'He died'? That's all the objection you have? Oh, you mortals and death. Of course he died!"

Picard looked up, with an expression in his face that Q had not expected – gratitude. "Thank you," he said at last.

Q cocked his head slightly. "For what?"

"Oh, don't pretend this isn't your doing, Q. People don't arbitrarily return to life after a pillar falls on them and their body is sent down a river! Or … Is there something about the river? Is that why Brooke insisted that we send his body down it?"

Q laughed. "No, not at all, Gandalf. There's nothing particularly special about the river. And you're right – it wasn't arbitrary. But, as much as I would love for you to be in my debt, Gandalf … I'm not the one you should thank."

"Brooke," Picard realized. "This was the favor you promised … a favor worth more to her than her own life. Q, did she know? When she left Lothlorien, did she know you would bring him back?"

"No. If she had known in Lothlorien that your continuation of the Quest would mean Aragorn's revival, she would have told you. And you would have followed her down the Anduin and to the very gates of Mordor without a second thought. No, she was content with the fact that she was saving the rest of you from a rather bloody mess in Lorien."

"And, instead, my crew is in the middle of a rather bloody mess in Rohan."

"True," Q conceded. "But there is still hope, as Boromir realized when she saw the White Tree. The Tree of the Kings of Gondor."

"That's right. Riker is—"

"Aragorn. Yes, he is. And that's about to become a very useful fact. Watch."

* * *

><p>"I cannot ask this of you," Riker repeated when Faramir didn't reply. "I don't command it. I don't request it as your king or even as your companion or friend. No man can ask this of another. No loyalty or oath can hold a man to this path."<p>

"No, it cannot," Faramir agreed, his grey eyes meeting Riker's, stern and grave, with a wisdom far beyond the young man's years. "And it is not loyalty or duty or even friendship that has brought me this far. Need presses us both. We are driven by the same hope, haunted by the same fear. And they have led us to the same path, which lies before us."

Riker nodded. "Then come."

Together, they rode deeper into the fog. Riker felt a chill run through his body. Beside him, Faramir tightened his grip on his horse's reins. "The Dead have seen us."

Riker shuddered. He hadn't known quite what to expect. He was relying on old memories from books he had read once. They had come to find the Dead. But what was he supposed to do? What could he say that would persuade them?

He glanced over at Faramir, grateful, at least, for his reassuring presence. It was Faramir, after all, who had found him, adrift on the Anduin River. How he had come there, Riker didn't know. The last thing he could recall was telling Brooke to lead the others home.

And the first person to find him had been Faramir. Faramir, Boromir's younger brother, who had instantly reminded him of Brooke. So much was the same – and not only in appearance. Even now, Faramir was strangely calm. He knew what had to be done, and he did it. He was more cautious, perhaps, less reckless. And patient. He had listened to Riker's tale in full – as much as he could tell – with great interest. Only then had he revealed what he knew, that, the previous day around midday, he had heard the blowing of a horn, and that he had seen in a dream that Rohan had need of their aid.

Their aid. Specifically, his. Aragorn's. Because the only way to raise a great enough force to aid them – without leaving Gondor utterly defenseless – was to take the Paths of the Dead. Only the king, Faramir had said, would be able to pass through alive and summon the Dead, but he had been desperate enough to try, anyway. And so Riker had revealed his – Aragorn's – true identity as the King of Gondor.

Faramir seemed the cautious sort, and may not have believed it so quickly had Riker not then resolved to do as Faramir had suggested and take the Paths of the Dead.

And now here they were. Not only were they taking the Paths of the Dead, but they were doing it backwards. Faramir, who knew of such things, had been quick to quote some old poet who had said, "From the North shall he come, need shall drive him: he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead." Riker had commented lightly that perhaps the Dead, having been dead for so long, would have lost their sense of direction.

It didn't seem nearly as funny now.

On they rode, and Riker could see shapes, lightly, in the fog. Men. Horses. Banners. All faint, as if part of a dream. But it was no dream, and the terror that seemed to draw the warmth from his entire body was no illusion. He felt as if he should say something, but no words would come. So they rode on in silence, at last coming to a hill.

"The Stone of Erech lies at the top," Faramir said solemnly, as if it was something of great importance. Riker, however, had no idea at all what that meant. What stone? Who cared about a stone? He didn't remember any stone. But they rode up the hill, anyway, the fog growing denser, or perhaps the Dead were gathering closer.

Then, at last, at the top, he could see it – a great, black stone, the top half sticking out of the ground. His first reaction would probably have been to shrug and continue on, but there the horses stopped and refused to move. The fog – and the Dead – now completely surrounded them. They were trapped.

At last, Faramir spoke, his voice low and grave:

_The hour is come for the oathbreakers:  
><em>_at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
><em>_and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
><em>_Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
><em>_from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?  
><em>_The heir of him to whom the oath they swore._

With that, he took his sack from the horse's saddle and drew out a small, silver horn. He handed it to Riker. "Summon them."

Riker took it, but hesitated. He didn't _want_ to summon them. They were quite close enough. But Faramir knew better than he did what was supposed to happen, so he put the horn to his lips and blew a long blast.

The air grew denser, the fog thicker. Riker looked around, then at Faramir. He had to do _something_. Something king-like. Carefully, he dismounted, then cast back his hood. Faramir quickly followed suit, and both of them approached the large, black stone.

"Oathbreakers!" Riker called, even though he couldn't recall what oath it was that they had broken. "Oathbreakers, what is it that you wish?"

Out of the shadows, a voice rose. "To fulfill our oath and be at peace."

That was it? Well, what was he supposed to do about it? He turned to Faramir, who merely repeated a line of the verse. "The heir of him to whom the oath they swore."

The heir. That had to be him, or nothing made sense – which was, of course, a possibility; they were, after all, surrounded by dead people. But, assuming that things made sense, the oath they had made was an oath to … someone who was an ancestor of his. No, not his. Aragorn's. Faramir had said something, when Riker had told him he was the King of Gondor. A name. A name that Brooke, too, had mentioned.

Riker drew his sword and held it high. "I am Isildur's heir!" he called to the Dead. "I go now to Rohan to fight against Saruman. Come with me. Fight with me. Then you will be free."

"We swore to fight against Sauron."

So there it was. Fortunately, Faramir spoke up. "Saruman is a puppet of Sauron. None of us fight Sauron himself – only his armies, his servants. Saruman is one of those servants, and a deadly one." He spoke louder now, more forcefully. "Your King requires your aid. Will you give it?"

There was silence for a moment. Riker repeated Faramir's words. "Will you give it?"

At last, the fog parted before them, allowing them a path. A voice rose again from the Dead. "We will fight for you, Aragorn, heir of Isildur, King of Gondor."


	20. That Which They Defend

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**Author's Note: **Okay, _now_ I should be able to get back to posting regularly. I unexpectedly had no internet access for pretty much all of the past week. Again, thank you all for your patience.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<br>****That Which They Defend**

"Who are they?" Picard asked, then decided on a better question. "_What _are they? And what did Riker do?"

"They are the Army of the Dead. The Oathbreakers. The forgotten people. And as for Aragorn … he summoned them. Which is really a lot more impressive than he made it look. If he were anyone else, he would be dead – again."

"Why?"

"The oath that they swore was to Isildur, King of Gondor. They answer only to his heir. The one who bears the Blade that was Broken, the Sword of Elendil that has been remade. The chief of the Dunedain of the North. Elessar. Isildur's heir."

"Riker."

"Yes, it would be much simpler if he had only one name. But you're missing the point, Gandalf."

"The point?"

How could he get through to him? How could he somehow convey the significance of what had just happened? Picard was still rejoicing that Riker was alive, but didn't appreciate at all how important it was that he had survived the last few minutes. Q had half-expected Riker to take advantage of his revival by immediately perishing in the Paths of the Dead. The entity smiled gravely as the horses rode on. "The point is that he's ready."

"Ready for what?"

But Q didn't answer. He simply snapped his fingers, and the image in the Palantir returned to Rohan. All questions were forgotten as Picard remembered that Geordi and Worf – and Eomer – were fighting for their lives. He held the Palantir close, searching for any sign of them amid the fire and debris that marked the Uruk-Hai's advance.

Then he saw them, fleeing towards the Golden Hall amid a torrent of arrows. Worf and Eomer half-carried Geordi, who was limping and clutching his side. Picard stiffened even more than usual, and seemed not to breathe at all until the trio had passed through the doors and were inside the building that the Uruk-Hai were steadily approaching.

Worf helped Geordi to where Dr. Crusher was tending the wounded. "It's not as bad as it looks," the doctor concluded quickly. "Your armor stopped the blow, or else only half of you would be here. You've got a few fractured ribs. Lie down over there."

"You aren't going to treat him?" Worf questioned.

Dr. Crusher didn't even glance up. "Worf, I've got a patient here with a severed femoral artery who's going to bleed to death in the next few minutes if I don't do something. Now kindly step out of my light."

Q burst out laughing. Dr. Crusher's face flushed as she realized what she had said. "Geordi, I – I didn't mean to – sit down here – I'll—"

Geordi shook his head. "No, it's all right. I'll wait over here."

"Geordi, I—"

"Treat your patients, Doctor," Geordi said firmly. "That's an order."

* * *

><p>"Treat your patients," Q repeated as the Palantir went dark. "You should leave him in command more often. 'Treat your patients.' Not, 'I come before fictional characters who don't even exist, anyway.' 'Treat your patients.'"<p>

Picard was unfazed. "Q, they'll need every man they can get, fictional or not, if they're going to survive long enough for Riker to get there."

"Oh, yes, the fellow with the severed femoral artery will be an immense help in their last defense."

Picard turned sullenly back to the Palantir, which was glowing red with the Uruk-Hai's fires. They were close. Would anything be left by the time Riker got there? Q had said he was ready. Ready for what? To lead the Army of the Dead in battle? To save the others? To defeat Saruman?

Dawn was breaking, a lighter glow of red beyond the fires. "A red sunrise," Q remarked. "Isn't that an ill omen among you captain-types?"

Picard looked up long enough to glare at Q. "Only at sea. A sunrise is a sunrise, Q, and if it is red for a purpose, you probably made it so yourself, to encourage despair and fear."

Q shook his head. "Didn't you hear a word of what Boromir has been saying since you were brought here? I don't need to _do _anything. If anything, old friend, all I have to do is _not_ interfere. Believe me, these people have enough cause for fear and despair without my tampering with the weather."

* * *

><p>Dawn. O' Brien stared out at the horizon, not quite believing that they were still alive. That the Uruk-Hai, though closer, still hadn't reached the Golden Hall. They had lasted the night.<p>

But for what? Help was still too far away. Data had left the previous morning. It would take a full day to reach Fangorn, and a full day to return, not to mention the time it would take Data to find the Ents and convince them to come and help.

"You haven't slept at all, have you?"

O' Brien turned sharply; Troi had startled him. He shook his head. "I tried. Twice. But the Uruk-Hai could reach us at any moment – and could have a lot sooner. So … no. I haven't slept. You?"

Troi shook her head. "No. There are too many wild emotions. Too much fear."

"You…" O' Brien hesitated. "You can feel emotions from them? They're that real?"

Troi sighed heavily. "It would appear so. I hadn't felt anything from the characters here before – or, at least, I hadn't realized that I had. We were only in Rivendell a short while. In Lorien, I could feel grief … loss … but I assumed they were simply my own emotions, or those of the crew. I never realized, at least not consciously, that the Elves were mourning with us.

"But here … it's not just the crew. It can't be. Even on the _Enterprise_, on a ship full of people, in the midst of a battle, I have never sensed this much fear. We're Starfleet officers, after all. This is what we were trained for. Even the families on board realize the risk they're taking by being there.

"The people here didn't sign up for this. This is their home, their land. And there are so many people here who have no way of defending themselves. The old, the sick, the injured. And the children. So many children…" She turned towards the sunrise, silent for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to share what was on her mind.

At last, she spoke. "When we arrived here, in Rohan, I could see that you had formed a connection with these people. I thought it was … absurd. You actually cared about what happened to these characters – and not simply because it would affect us. You risked your life to go back and help Eomer, and I wouldn't believe it for a moment if you said it was simply because he is a good soldier and will be a valuable ally when the Uruk-Hai get here."

"Then I won't bother saying it," O' Brien conceded. "You have to understand, Counselor. For two weeks, I was here, alone, without any idea how or why. For all I knew, these people were as real as you or me. It takes a while to get used to the idea that the people you've been living with for the last two weeks … aren't real."

"Then don't."

O' Brien turned, surprised. "Pardon?"

"Don't. Don't get used to the idea. We've made the mistake all along of keeping a careful distance from this world. And we have fumbled along every step of the way because we were unwilling to engage in what is happening. Brooke was the only reason we made it through Moria, the only reason the Elves didn't shoot us at first sight, and, for better or worse, the only reason we aren't still sitting in Lothlorien at this very moment.

"And you treat this world the same way. You interact freely with these characters. You form connections with them. And, yes, as a counselor, I'm a little concerned about the long-term psychological impact this will have, but … what you're doing works. Somehow, you survived here without any previous knowledge of what's going on. It's hard to argue with that."

There was something more. Something she wasn't saying. "It's not just about what works," O' Brien said quietly. "It's about giving meaning to what's happening. Because if these are just fictional characters, and we die here, then we die for nothing. But if they're real, and we're fighting to protect the weak and the helpless and the children … well, what better purpose could you ask for?"

"And if they die, anyway, along with us? If the Uruk-Hai destroy everything … then what did we die for?"

"For time," O' Brien answered, watching the shadows of the Uruk-Hai creep steadily closer. "Each hour the Uruk-Hai are occupied here gives other people, more distant villages that they haven't reached yet, time to prepare. Time to gather a defense or time to flee. And time for this Quest of yours, whatever that is."

"Not ours."

"True. If I've gathered anything about this Quest, it's that you seem to have done everything possible to delay it, to undermine it, or simply to ignore it."

"The last would be more accurate," Troi admitted. "We didn't consider it as important as our survival."

"Brooke seems to think we won't survive at all if it isn't completed."

Troi nodded. "She's been telling us that all along. She would have had us abandon her and Wesley and the Captain so that we could finish the Quest sooner. We were trying to save lives. Instead, we've accomplished nothing, except that now we will probably die, as well."

"Your arrival was not in vain," came a voice from behind them. Eomer. "You set a chain of events in motion. You helped free Boromir and me. Grima is dead and King Theoden is himself once more. We were able to gather a defense. Because of Pippin, there is hope, however faint, that the Ents will come to our aid. Do not underestimate the role you and your company have played in these events, Legolas of Mirkwood. Follow what may, great deeds are not lessened in worth." He smiled. "And you, Hama. You have shown courage and loyalty, and, no matter what happens here today, I am proud to have you at my side."

O' Brien bowed graciously. "Thank you, my lord."

"The men are gathering outside the doors in the hope of blocking the Uruk-Hai's advance, for a little while. If you are able, I would ask you to fight beside me once more."

"My lord, before this day is over, I fear every man, woman, and child, able or not, will be called upon in Rohan's defense. Rest assured, the Uruk-Hai will not find me cowering in a corner because of this wound. I will fight by your side. And know, my lord, that I consider it an honor to do so."

Eomer smiled. Even Troi smiled. She could sense the absolute sincerity behind O' Brien's words.

O' Brien followed Eomer to a door on the western side. The Uruk-Hai marched closer, and closer, coming at last within range of the archers on the rooftop. Here or there an Uruk-Hai fell, but there were so many.

O' Brien drew his sword. All around him, men did the same. Troi followed suit. O' Brien smiled and met her gaze. "For Rohan?"

Troi nodded. "For Rohan."

Then the Uruk-Hai charged.

* * *

><p>Picard watched the battle with growing tension, and not simply because the massive Uruk-Hai force greatly outnumbered Theoden's soldiers. He was frustrated for the same reason that Q was smiling, satisfied. His crew was fighting alongside the Rohirrim. Troi had consented that they were fighting for Rohan. Dr. Crusher was treating her patients as if real lives depended on it. Geordi and O' Brien had nearly gotten themselves killed, and Worf, too, had risked his life. Picard shook his head slowly. "What have you done, Q?"<p>

Q smiled. Picard still thought he as manipulating their minds, tricking them into cooperating with the Rohirrim. Q gazed at the Palantir, at the Uruk-Hai who now raged out of control, at the people of Rohan who were scrambling here and there. "I struck the shepherd," he offered, "and the sheep were scattered. And if the shepherd was, indeed, a good one, and laid down his life for the sheep, then, by all means, let us remember that with honor. But if the shepherd was leading the sheep straight into a pack of wolves … well, then perhaps I have done the sheep a favor."

Picard barely looked up from the Palantir. He hadn't really expected an answer. And Q didn't expect the satisfaction of a response – not from Picard. Instead, they watched together, silent, as the morning wore on, as the Uruk-Hai slowly beat back the Rohirrim's defense.

* * *

><p>O' Brien was tiring. But not as quickly as he once would have. His time in Rohan had refreshed his skill in hand-to-hand combat, skills he hadn't needed since fighting the Cardassians. He'd had training since, certainly, and there was the occasional alien species that managed to board the <em>Enterprise<em>, but, even then, phasers were more useful than anything that resembled a sword.

But, as he stood back-to-back with Eomer, keeping Troi in sight, fighting the pain in his leg, O' Brien realized that there were some things he had never forgotten. The smell of the smoke was different here; it was wood burning and not metal or computer wires. But the thickness of the air, the burning in his eyes and lungs – that was the same. The surge of relief every time he was able to pause long enough to catch a breath – that was the same. The rush of adrenaline, the rapid pulsing of blood through his veins, the split-second, life-or-death decisions – all of it was familiar.

Their forces were thinning. Even from his limited view, O' Brien could see that they wouldn't be able to hold much longer. He wondered if the forces on the other side of the building were faring as badly. Worf was over there; that would help. But even a Klingon couldn't single-handedly hold the Uruk-Hai at bay.

The sun climbed higher and higher, making everything unbearably hot. O' Brien caught himself looking up at the sky, wishing for rain. Enough to put out the fires. There was so much fire. So many patches of red and columns of smoke creeping mercilessly towards the Golden Hall.

The smoke was growing thicker. O' Brien couldn't even see Troi. Somewhere behind him, Eomer was shouting at the others to stand their ground. A few men tried to flee, but these were immediately swallowed up by the army of Uruk-Hai. O' Brien made his way back to Eomer's side, standing defiantly in front of the door.

He didn't even see the battering ram until it swung by him, grazing his side on the way to the door. The force of the blow knocked O' Brien to the ground. Splinters of wood flew everywhere as the door shattered. Between the cloud of wood splinters and the thickening smoke, O' Brien could barely see anything, but a sharp, burning pain in his shoulder alerted him to the fact that he had fallen on a burning torch. He rolled over, trying to smother the flames, but pain filled his chest at the slightest movement. Smoke began to fill his lungs as the flames spread, lapping at his clothes and skin. Gasping, he cried out for Eomer, but he didn't even know whether he was alive, or if he, too, had been injured.

A wooden beam fell, burning, nearby. Another one pinned his legs. A few Uruk-Hai rushed past him, but then one stopped, sword drawn, standing over him. O' Brien grasped his sword, but his arm wouldn't move.

The Uruk-Hai raised its sword, but then fell dead, a sword through its chest. The last thing O' Brien saw before the darkness enveloped was Eomer, turning to kill yet another approaching Uruk-Hai.

Then everything went black.


	21. The Last Dance

**Acrostic Puzzle Disclaimer: **

**T**heoden**  
>H<strong>ama**  
>E<strong>doras**  
>S<strong>aruman**  
>E<strong>omer

**A**ragorn**  
>R<strong>iker**  
>E<strong>owyn

**S**auron**  
>T<strong>roi**  
>I<strong>mladris**  
>L<strong>egolas**  
>L<strong>othlorien

**N**arsil**  
>O<strong>' Brien **  
>T<strong>heoden

**M**iddle-Earth**  
><strong>**I**sildur's Bane**  
>N<strong>umenorians**  
>E<strong>lrond

Obviously, this doesn't cover all the things in here that aren't mine, but I thought it was a clever mood-lightener, and you know the drill by now. It's still not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-One<br>****The Last Dance**

"Hama."

After more than two weeks, O' Brien was quite accustomed to responding to his character's name, but, at the moment, that was the last thing he wanted to do. Consciousness meant pain, he knew from the throbbing in his shoulder that was worsening as he became more aware. Breathing, too, became more painful, and soon he was coughing, which only made the burning in his lungs even more intense.

"Hama." Eomer's voice. So he was still alive, too. O' Brien opened his eyes. Eomer's tone was urgent. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

They were inside. That much, O' Brien could gather from the fact that he was looking up at a roof rather than the sky. Slowly, Eomer's face came into focus. His expression was grave and, O' Brien thought, sad.

"The battle?" O' Brien asked anxiously. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Hours. It is nearly nightfall. I would not have woken you, Hama, but you had said that you did not wish to die cowering in a corner. Somehow, I didn't think you would find unconsciousness preferable, either."

O' Brien nodded weakly. "Thank you."

"All of our forces have gathered in this room, along with the women and children, the elderly, and the injured," Eomer continued. "We have barricaded the doors, but they will not hold for long."

"Why don't they just burn us to the ground?" O' Brien wondered.

Eomer smiled grimly. "Believe me, they've tried. But the storms began a few hours ago. Their fires won't last. But it's only a matter of time before they can break through."

O' Brien sat up slowly and looked around. The room, although large, was crowded with people. Almost everyone had a weapon of some kind. Tables had been torn apart, their legs providing clubs. Boys too young to hold a sword properly were armed with knives, most of which looked more fit for carving a well-roasted bit of meat than stabbing through armor.

One by one, he found he could account for all the members of the _Enterprise _crew. Worf stood by a door braced with tables and chairs, fingering his axe. Geordi stood near another door, beside Eowyn. Troi knelt beside a group of frightened children. Dr. Crusher was directing traffic in a particularly crowded corner nearby, still stubbornly tending to the wounded. Among the injured and dying lay Brooke, still completely unaware.

After one more glance around the room, O' Brien realized the cause of Eomer's mood. "The king?"

Eomer shook his head. "He was one of the first to fall on the other side. Our people have not borne the tidings well. They believe all hope is lost. And I fear they are right, _because_ they believe it." He looked around. "Oddly enough, it's put our newest healer in a particularly irritable mood, as well."

O' Brien let that sink in. Theoden was dead. The people were losing hope. That made sense. But Dr. Crusher…

His gaze strayed to the doctor, who was kneeling beside Brooke, frustration plastered on her face. O' Brien slowly got to his feet, careful not to use his left shoulder, which had been bandaged, but still hurt terribly. "I wouldn't go over there," Eomer advised. "Right now, he might be as dangerous as the Uruk-Hai. These Halflings are a feisty folk."

O' Brien ignored the warning. Dr. Crusher looked up as he approached. "Hama, sit down before you fall down," she grumbled.

O' Brien held back a comment about her bedside manner as he sat down beside Brooke. "It wasn't pointless," he said calmly.

Dr. Crusher looked up in surprise. "What wasn't?"

"What Boromir did for Theoden," O' Brien said, careful to use the name of Brooke's character. He was certain Eomer was listening from a distance.

"She did this to save Theoden. Theoden is dead. How is that not pointless?"

"He did more than save Theoden, and you know it," O' Brien pointed out. "That's not why you're upset."

"It's … unfair … that she has to die this way. Completely unaware. Defenseless. Unable to fight back. It's … not what she would have wanted."

O' Brien stared, absolutely shocked. For all her harsh words and resentment for Brooke, Dr. Crusher did, in fact, have some measure of respect for her, some understanding of what she had been trying to do. "You're right," he agreed, placing a hand on Dr. Crusher's shoulder. "It's not what he would have wanted. But it's something he was willing to accept, to give us a chance." He managed a small smile. "And do you really think he would want your pity?"

"No," Dr. Crusher conceded quietly. Then, after a moment, "There's something else he wouldn't want, either." She removed a horn from Brooke's belt. "He would not want it to remain silent in our last defense. Take it, Hama, and blow it when you see fit."

O' Brien took the horn. "Why me?"

"He would have wanted it blown by one of his kindred, but, since none are here, I believe he would consider you near enough."

O' Brien hesitated for a moment, wondering whether the comment had been for his benefit or for Eomer's. He vaguely remembered Brooke saying that she was from Gondor – wherever that was – and, apparently, none of the others were. Had Dr. Crusher meant to say that Hama was close enough to Boromir's kindred … or that he was similar enough to Brooke? Either way, he decided, he might as well take it as a compliment. "Thank you."

Dr. Crusher's look revealed that this wasn't quite the reaction she'd expected, but she smiled, anyway. "You're welcome, Hama. Now go help your new king."

O' Brien nodded and made his way to Eomer, his sword in his right hand, Brooke's horn in his left. "What are your orders, my lord?"

"Join me at the southern door, if you still desire to remain by my side."

"I do, my lord." He followed Eomer to what he assumed was the southern side of the room.

Eomer turned towards the room full of people. "Men of Rohan!" Then, realizing that was an absurd way to address a room where women and children greatly outnumbered the grown men conscious enough to care what he was saying, he tried again. "Sons and daughters of Rohan! I stand before you today, asking you to fight. I am your king, but I do not command you. I do not demand that you fight for me. Nor will I insist that you fight to defend your country, your land, your homes that are already burning. Rather, I would ask that you look around this room. Look at your brothers. Your sisters. Your parents and children. Your friends and relatives. Never has what you were fighting for been so real, so immediately threatened. And so I beg of you to stand! Not for me. Not for king or country, but for each other! Stand, my brothers! My sisters! Stand!"

Across the hall, Eowyn raised her sword. "Stand!"

"Stand!" The cry filled the room as they obeyed the call. Old men and women who seemed too frail to walk leaned on each other for support, swords drawn. Men in danger of bleeding to death drew their weapons, ready to defend those even more gravely injured. Children too small to lift a sword stood with their knives pointed at the door, shielding babes too young even to stand.

Geordi's sword was held up proudly beside Eowyn's. Worf raised his axe high above his head in both hands. Dr. Crusher stood defiantly beside Brooke, sword ready. Troi stood amid a group of small children, her sword held high, near enough for O' Brien to see that, on her finger, she wore a large ring. O' Brien blew a long blast on his horn.

And then – as the Uruk-Hai came crashing through the doors on every side of the room – faintly, as if in the distance, or perhaps in a dream, another horn answered.

* * *

><p>"He's alive!" Joy and relief shone in Faramir's face as they rode onwards, and the horn echoed again. "Boromir! He's alive!"<p>

Riker grinned as he answered again with the silver horn that Faramir had given him. Together, they urged their horses onward, faster. The same relief that Faramir displayed so openly hit Riker like a wave. He knew that horn. He had only heard it once, in Rivendell, but the sound was unmistakable, and, if he'd had any doubts after the first blast, Faramir had shattered them all. Riker knew better than to argue with Boromir's brother about what the Horn of Gondor sounded like.

And, at the very least, that meant that Brooke was alive, somewhere ahead, amid the rubble that had once been Edoras. As the Dead began to pass the two horses and sped onwards towards what little remained of the city, Riker could only hope that the others, too, were alive and with her.

* * *

><p>Help was coming. The people of Rohan fought with renewed hope at the sound of the horn. O' Brien blew another blast, and the answering call seemed closer than before. Back and forth they called, O' Brien somehow finding the time and breath to keep sounding the horn.<p>

The Uruk-Hai were breaking through their defense. Parts of the walls were falling. In some corner of his mind, O' Brien found it amazing that the ceiling hadn't collapsed yet. Through the torn walls, he could see masses of Uruk-Hai, and, behind them, amid the rain and the clouds, the last light of the sunset.

O' Brien raised the horn to his lips once more, but, as he did, an Uruk-Hai struck, narrowly missing O' Brien's head, and cleaving the horn in two. One swift stroke from Eomer's sword left the Uruk-Hai dead. O' Brien ran his sword through another. Still, the Uruk-Hai poured through the walls.

* * *

><p>The horn stopped. Faramir and Riker exchanged anxious glances. Each urged his horse on a little faster, both aware that the Dead would reach Edoras first, but both anxious to arrive, nonetheless. Riker blew his horn again, hoping in vain for an answer. But none came.<p>

* * *

><p>O' Brien saw it first, though he had no idea what to make of it. It looked like a great cloud of shadowy mist, and it swept through the Uruk-Hai's lines. O' Brien stared in wonder as the Uruk-Hai fell dead. As the cloud drew closer, he could make out shapes – men, horses, banners. What, exactly, they were, he didn't know, nor did it matter. They were killing the Uruk-Hai. And they were doing it with terrifying speed.<p>

The mist entered the room and passed him, swiftly, but without any indication of haste. It was as if they simply blew effortlessly through what had once been the Golden Hall, slaying the Uruk-Hai without any thought of danger to themselves. And their recklessness was warranted. The Uruk-Hai seemed to crumble before them in terror.

Then O' Brien saw them – two horses, in the midst of the great, shadowy mist. And two men, barely visible in the darkness. As they drew nearer, he could hear them shouting. "Boromir! Boromir!"

Boromir. It didn't take O' Brien long to realize why they were calling for him. He picked up the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. "They recognized his horn." He took a step towards the door. One of the riders pulled ahead as O' Brien stepped out into the night, with Eomer close behind.

The rider pulled his horse to a halt just short of trampling O' Brien. In an instant, his sword was dangerously close to O' Brien's neck. "Who are you, and how did you come by my brother's horn?"

O' Brien looked up, unflinching but thoroughly startled, into eyes that so closely resembled Brooke's. The man's voice and bearing left O' Brien no doubt that there was truth to what he said; this was most definitely Boromir's brother.

"Peace, Faramir," came a second voice. An impossible voice. O' Brien stared at the other rider as he drew near. His ears had not been mistaken, unless his eyes, too, were deceived.

The other man, apparently Faramir, sheathed his sword – a little reluctantly, O' Brien thought. "Where is my brother? Is he alive?"

O' Brien looked up at Riker, who nodded. Despite this rather uneasy meeting, Faramir was a friend. "He's inside," O' Brien replied. "And he was alive when I last saw him."

"Why would he entrust the Horn of Gondor to another. Was he injured?"

O' Brien hesitated, but Riker nodded again. The truth would be best; they would learn it soon enough themselves. O' Brien turned back to Faramir. "Yes, and badly, I fear. As for the horn, a mutual friend bade me blow it in his stead, so that it might not remain silent in our last defense." He offered the broken horn to Faramir, who took it and clutched it tightly. All anger had vanished from his face. Pain and grief had replaced it.

After a moment, Faramir recovered enough to speak. "I apologize for my rashness," he said quietly, his voice kind and sincere. "When I heard the horn, I assumed that none but Boromir could have blown it. I thought…"

"There was no harm done, Faramir," O' Brien assured him. "Yours wasn't the first sword to threaten my neck tonight. If you assumed I had killed your brother, I would say that you have shown a generous amount of restraint, thanks to which my head is still attached."

Faramir smiled faintly. "Your courage saved your life, my friend. When I saw that you were unafraid, I doubted my assumption. What is your name?"

"Hama."

"And are you in command here?"

Eomer stepped forward. "No, he is not, but, after tonight, I would not hesitate to leave all of Rohan in his charge if the need arose. But tell me, Faramir, from whence comes this army? I was not aware that the Stewards of Gondor could summon armies out of legends."

Faramir shook his head. "We cannot. This army does not answer to the house of the Stewards, but to the King of Gondor." He indicated Riker with a motion of his arm.

Eomer turned to Riker in surprise. "_You_ command this shadowy host?"

Riker nodded, ignoring Eomer's shocked expression. "Yes. I do. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir." He smiled. "I also realize I don't look it. We've had a long journey, and we had need of haste. I only regret that we could not have arrived sooner."

Eomer nodded. "As do I. But we are grateful, nonetheless."

"Enough with the formalities, already!" O' Brien insisted. "My apologies, my lords, but if it's all right by you and your respective kingdoms and armies, I'm going to take Faramir to see his brother."

Faramir looked as surprised as the others by O' Brien's frankness, but his eyes shone with silent gratitude as he dismounted and O' Brien led him inside. "He has a point, Eomer," Riker agreed, pulling the young king's name from his memory. "Formalities can wait, and, frankly, there are quite a few people I'm hoping to see in there."

As they passed through what was left of a wall, Riker quickly caught sight of Worf, and then Geordi. Troi, too, was among the people of Rohan, and Dr. Crusher knelt in a corner by several injured soldiers. Riker looked around. Where was the Captain? Data? Wesley?

His questions were forgotten, however, as he caught sight of Faramir, who sank to his knees near where Dr. Crusher was tending to the injured. Riker wove his way through the people, living and dead, to where Brooke lay. If not for Dr. Crusher's immediate assurance that she was still alive, Riker would have thought she was dead. Her skin was a deathly, ashen color, her breathing not even noticeable, her whole body limp and lifeless. She had several wounds that had been carefully bandaged, as well as various cuts and scrapes that hadn't. "What happened?" Riker asked, not entirely sure that he wanted an answer.

Dr. Crusher looked up. "That depends on what you mean. The poison was Orcs. The wounds were Uruk-Hai. And the spell was Saruman. Overall, a nasty combination. I've done everything I can."

Riker stared at Brooke, not quite believing what the doctor was saying. Then, suddenly, he looked up. "Everything _you _can."

Dr. Crusher turned, surprised. "Well, you're quite welcome to try to find someone who can do better, because, frankly, I'm at my wits' end."

Riker seemed not to have heard her. He was looking down once more – this time at his own hands. "The hands of a King," he mumbled softly.

Dr. Crusher was understandably confused. "What?"

It was Faramir who answered. "It is an old saying in Gondor that the hands of the King are the hands of a healer … and so shall the rightful king be known." He turned to Riker, his eyes revealing that he was daring to hope once more. "Is it true? Can you save him?"

"I don't know," Riker answered honestly. "But we'll find out together."


	22. The Steward and the King

**Disclaimer: **_The Lord of the Rings _is not mine. _Star Trek _is not mine. And, coincidentally, _Jurassic Park_, from which I lovingly borrowed a couple little snippets near the end, is also ... not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Two<br>****The Steward and the King**

"They did it, Q," Picard smiled triumphantly, trying not to reveal how concerned he had been.

Q stood beside him, quite calm and composed, as if he didn't care at all that the Dead had completely decimated his army. "Again with this 'it' that they have done. What is 'it' this time, Gandalf?"

"We won."

"Yes. The Dead have defeated the Uruk-Hai. The Ents are on their way here to destroy what is left of my forces. Young Pippin found them about five minutes ago, by the way, and they are very close to here and very angry. Aragorn has proven himself as the King of Gondor, fit to command the Army of the Dead. All in all, your Fellowship has been quite victorious today. Yes, you should be very proud."

It was impossible to miss the irony in Q's voice. "But…" Picard prompted, irritated.

Q shook his head. "But victory, Gandalf, always comes with a price, a price that is too often paid by those who have already given too much, sacrificed too much for that victory."

"Riker seems to think he can save her."

Q nodded. "He is certainly welcome – very welcome, in fact – to try."

* * *

><p>"I need a bowl of water," Riker instructed, trying desperately to think, to remember what he was supposed to do.<p>

Dr. Crusher looked up. "Does this really look like a kitchen?"

But O' Brien was already on his feet, a helmet in his hands, on his way outside. When he returned, it was full of rainwater.

Riker nodded and took the helmet. "Thank you, Hama." He turned back to Dr. Crusher. "Sam, there's a plant…" What was it called? "Kingsfoil. Do you have any?"

"I'm a doctor, not a gardener," Dr. Crusher shrugged helplessly.

Faramir shook his head. "I fear athelas does not grow in these parts, my lord."

Dr. Crusher perked up. "Athelas? I do have some of that. Gui – Galadriel gave it to me." She took the plant from her pack and handed it to Riker. "Is this the right plant?"

Riker crushed a few leaves and scattered them in the helmet. A sweet, refreshing fragrance filled the room. "Yes," Riker nodded. "This is right."

"Would this help?" Worf, holding a small bottle, about half-full with a dark liquid. "Galadriel gave it to me. We drank some on the way here, but Boromir is welcome to what is left."

Riker smiled. Even if it didn't help, he couldn't ignore the meaning behind the gift. And it certainly couldn't hurt. "Thank you, Gimli." He took the bottle and poured a few drops into the helmet. And it seemed, at least to him, that the sweet aroma grew stronger. "Do you have any cloth?"

"Here." Eowyn, this time. She held out what had probably been the sleeve of a dress. Riker looked around. Everyone seemed to have gathered to watch. Troi and Geordi stood beside Worf. Eowyn and Eomer watched, side by side. And nearly every other eye in the room, as well, was turned in his direction.

But it didn't matter. He dipped the cloth in the water. The only watching eyes that made a difference at the moment belonged to Faramir, hopeful and confident. Riker placed the cloth on the teenager's icy forehead. In one of his hands, he took one of hers, limp and deathly cold.

He didn't stop to think. He couldn't. If he did, he was certain, he would convince himself that this was ridiculous, couldn't possibly work, and, for all he knew, might leave them both in a worse condition. Dr. Crusher had mentioned a spell. Magic – and powerful magic, by the looks of it. There was no telling what would happen if he tried to interfere.

But, against all reason he knew, relying totally on instincts and vague memories from a book he hadn't read in years, he placed his other hand over the cloth on Brooke's forehead. "Boromir," he called, quietly, at first, but then louder. "Boromir. Boromir."

But even as his voice grew louder and louder, it seemed to those around him that it was fading, growing more distant. Riker closed his eyes, slowly letting go of Commander Riker of the starship _Enterprise_, allowing Aragorn, son of Arathorn, King of Gondor, to do what needed to be done. "Boromir. Boromir."

* * *

><p>Picard watched anxiously as Riker's voice grew fainter. Suddenly, the Palantir went dark. Picard hurriedly set it down before Sauron could appear again.<p>

Riker must have done something right. Q was gone.

* * *

><p>"Boromir. Boromir."<p>

The voice was faint. So faint. She wasn't even certain, at first, that it was another voice at all, and not her own mind, calling her to wake from the darkness that engulfed her.

"Boromir."

But it was a voice. A familiar voice. She knew why he had come. But she also knew – with some sense that she had never used before, something akin to intuition, but so much stronger, more certain – that he was too late.

"Boromir."

She didn't want to answer. The darkness was so peaceful. So calm. She didn't want to fight, and she knew she didn't have the strength left. She could just wait. As long as she wanted to. His calls meant nothing without an answer. Unless she reached out, too, he would never pull her from the darkness.

"Boromir."

His voice grew stronger. More insistent. But not only that. There was an unmistakable authority in his voice. The authority of a king. And Brooke knew, as a wave of joy washed over her, that she would not – she _could _not – let his efforts be in vain. Something like loyalty, but so much deeper, coursed through her. He was her king. He was calling her. And she would answer.

"Boromir."

"Aragorn." She reached out with all the strength she could muster. "Aragorn."

"Boromir." Ahead of her, the darkness was fading. But only in the distance, as if she were watching a sunrise from underwater.

"Aragorn." The light was growing brighter. Stronger. But it still couldn't reach her. She still lay beneath the surface of the water, unable to feel its warmth.

"Boromir." A hand reached out into the darkness, beckoning her. Bracing herself against the pain she was certain would greet her when she surfaced, Brooke reached out and grasped his hand tightly.

But no pain came. She broke the water, and air filled her lungs. The sun shone brightly down on her, welcoming her back. Two strong arms pulled her to shore. Brooke looked up into the face of her king, still clinging to his hand, as if that physical connection was the only thing keeping her from falling back into darkness.

Riker smiled. "I'm here, Boromir."

"And so am I," came a third voice. Q approached along the shore, his voice deathly calm, his expression unreadable.

Riker looked startled for a moment, but then understanding sank in. "You're Saruman."

"Yes, I am. And you are Aragorn. And I am impressed. Do you have any idea what you've just accomplished?"

A look of absolute shock crossed Riker's face as he realized. "You mean it worked?"

Q nodded gravely. "Yes, after a fashion. If Boromir so wishes, she is now free of my spell."

Riker was beaming, as if he hadn't heard Q's qualifier. But his smile faded as he looked at Brooke. "What's the catch, Q? Why would she want to remain under your power?"

"Ask her," Q suggested. "She understands."

Brooke nodded. "Because, either way … I'm going to die."

She looked up at Q, who nodded, confirming her instincts. "It was never in my power to kill you – only to allow the poison to do the job. And it will."

Riker stared, his expression a mix of disbelief and anger. "So this … it was all for nothing."

Brooke was about to agree, but, looking up at Riker, and seeing Aragorn, she knew that she couldn't. He needed this victory. It meant more than either of them had realized at the time. "It wasn't for nothing," she said firmly. "I won't let it be." She turned to Q. "What happens if I let you stay?"

"I take you back into unconsciousness, and you remain there, unaware, until your death, which will be soon. My spell allows the poison to progress more quickly. It would be less painful … for all involved."

"And if I choose to be free?"

"Then your death will be slower. And more painful. But you and Aragorn will have defeated me, and what little time you have left will be yours, not mine."

"How much time?"

"A matter of hours. But, before you start planning a three-hour speech on everything they're going to encounter, keep in mind that the poison will have left you far too weak to tell them much, if anything."

So she couldn't help them. Not much, anyways. They would have to rely on Riker. That left only one reason to return to consciousness, but that one reason was enough. She turned to Q. "Let me go, Saruman."

Q took a step closer. "Brooke, I have no desire to see you in pain."

Did he feel guilty? Brooke looked up in surprise. It wasn't his fault, after all. He hadn't poisoned her. He'd refused to allow her to die at Amon Hen, and, instead, had ordered his Uruk-Hai to bring her back alive. He clearly hadn't wanted this. She had to let him know, somehow, that she understood.

Brooke smiled – a smug, playful grin that she hoped would get her point across. "With all due respect, Saruman, this is _my _mind. Get. Out."

Q returned the smile, but then placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded gravely. "I truly wish, Boromir, that I could say it was my pleasure."

Then he disappeared.

* * *

><p>The darkness returned, and, with it, the pain and confusion that the poison had brought. Pain that would have made it difficult to concentrate even if the poison hadn't been slowly eroding her ability to form coherent thoughts. Every beat of her heart sent another wave of pain coursing through her body. Every breath burned inside her lungs until she released it again. She tried to move her arms, to clutch at her chest and maybe ease the fire, but pain tore through her at every hint of movement, and her arms, weak and limp from the poison, wouldn't respond properly.<p>

Two arms lifted her gently into a half-seated position. Amid the numbness that was setting into her limbs, she could feel a hand, warm and strong, wrapped tightly around hers. Slowly, she forced her eyes open. It was dark; only a few torches lit what was left of the room. Gradually, she could make out faces. Riker was beside her, with Dr. Crusher alongside, staring in amazement. O' Brien knelt beside her, with Troi, Worf, and Geordi standing behind. Eomer and Eowyn stood a little farther away.

And, beside her, supporting her almost effortlessly, a look of awe and gratitude on his face, was a man Brooke had never seen before, and yet knew immediately. Faramir.

He didn't know. Didn't understand that she would die, despite Riker's efforts. She had to tell him. To do otherwise would be cruel, and would solve nothing; he would know perfectly well in a few hours. But she couldn't let him think that Riker had failed. Faramir would never accuse him, or blame him for her death; of that much, she was absolutely certain. But she couldn't allow Faramir to doubt him, either. Riker would need Faramir's loyalty.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Her throat was dry, her mouth filled with a strange, empty taste. Riker uncorked a small bottle and gently poured a little of a deep brown liquid into her mouth. The taste was rich and strong. Brooke swallowed gratefully, though the effort sent her mind reeling with pain.

After taking a moment to recover, she spoke with as much strength as she could muster. "You have freed me from the darkness, my King," she addressed Riker. "Now I can die in peace."

Riker knelt in silence, watching as the others reacted to Brooke's carefully-chosen words. Even this small effort – though, in truth, she had spoken in little more than a whisper – seemed to have drained her of what little strength she had left, and she now lay limply in Faramir's arms. Faramir, for his part, held her even more tightly.

Upon Faramir, at least, Brooke's words had achieved their desired effect. He understood that she was going to die, but also that she did not consider this a failure on Riker's part. And, in this matter, Faramir yielded to his brother's judgment. His expression was marked by pain and grief, but not anger. Not blame.

The others, too, seemed to Riker equally ready to shield him from guilt. Dr. Crusher placed a hand on his shoulder. "You did more than I could have hoped to." The others, as well, seemed surprised that he had accomplished anything at all, rather than that he hadn't been able to do more.

Riker wished he could agree, wished he felt none of the guilt that Brooke stubbornly refused to place on him. Still, at the same time, he knew that the sting of guilt would pass. There was nothing he could have done differently, no way he could have known, upon setting out from Minas Tirith, what lay at the end of the road. He had made decisions based on what he had known at the time. He was used to those decisions. Command decisions. Decisions that sometimes cost lives. First Officer of the _Enterprise _or King of Gondor – it made no difference. He had to trust his decisions.

Brooke was counting on that. Counting on him. They would have to rely on him now. Riker gave the teenager's hand a firm but gentle squeeze. "There's something you should see." Something she needed to see.

Releasing her hand, Riker stood and blew the silver horn again. The air inside the room thickened as the Dead drew near. "You have fought well," Riker announced. An extreme understatement, of course. They had single-handedly wiped out the Uruk-Hai and saved what was left of Edoras. "I am deeply in your debt. How can I show my gratitude?"

"Release us from our oath, so that we may be at peace," came the shadowy voice that startled almost everyone. Only Riker, Faramir, and Brooke showed no surprise.

Riker nodded. He had hoped to be able to do more for them after what they had done. But they seemed to consider their freedom reward enough. "Then I do release you," Riker replied, his voice steady and confident – the voice of a king. "You have fulfilled your oath. Be at peace."

It was nothing fancy. Nothing dramatic. But nothing could have meant more than the slow, steady departure of the thick shadow that had filled the room. Brooke looked up at Aragorn – at Riker. Her thoughts were too clouded to separate the two. And there was no reason to try.

He knelt and took her hand once more. Brooke tried to smile, but was fairly certain it came out as more of a grimace. But he nodded, anyway. He understood what she no longer had the strength to say. In Moria, he had told her to lead their Fellowship home. Now the duty, the burden, was his once more. She had been his steward. Now the king had returned.

Riker watched helplessly as Brooke fought, fought to live for one more moment, and then another. Despite the quiet resignation she had been determined to show around Q, she couldn't simply surrender to the poison. Her body may have wanted to, but her mind wouldn't allow it. She wanted desperately to live, just a little longer, even if it meant unbearable pain.

Riker held her hand tightly, silently wishing he could, simply by willing it, give her some of his strength. But that was beyond even Aragorn's power. He could do nothing but watch, unable to help her to live, unwilling to accept, even now, that she would die.

Brooke watched as the figures around her drifted in and out of focus. Around them, people were moving, tending to the wounded, searching for loved ones. Dr. Crusher was the first to join them, breaking the silent vigil around the teenager. Had Brooke been able, she would have thanked the doctor. They couldn't allow life to stop simply because hers would.

Eomer quickly followed suit. He had other matters to attend to. After all, he was now the King of Rohan. It would be up to him to decide their next move. Merry and Gimli followed him. Legolas and Eowyn left to help tend to the wounded. That left only Faramir, Riker, and O' Brien. Her brother. Her king. And Hama. Hama, who was no relation at all, who wasn't even from Gondor. But, somehow, it seemed right that he was there.

Right. If there was even such a thing as a right group of people to witness her death. A right way to die. She had thought of death before, certainly. She had been prepared to die in Moria. She had expected to die at Amon Hen. But she had never imagined it like this, never grasped the pain, the weakness, the absolute helplessness that now engulfed her. She longed for the pain to stop, but, at the same time, she couldn't give in. She couldn't let go. Not yet.

How long it had been, Riker couldn't guess. The darkness outside provided no sense of time. But a new wave of grief struck him as he realized it wouldn't be much longer. Brooke's breathing came only in short, ragged gasps, and these were growing fewer, the time between each filled with a silence as her three companions wondered if she would breathe again. Yet, again and again, she fought back, mustering the strength for another breath.

Each time she did, pain stabbed through her chest. Her lungs begged for more air, for deeper breaths, but she didn't have the strength left for any more than a quick gasp, each of which sapped her energy, forcing her to summon all her strength once more, and then once again.

And still the three men remained, unwilling to leave, even for a moment, as if simply by being there, they could ease her pain. She wished she could thank them.

Then he appeared. The others didn't react; he was invisible to them, she was certain. The sudden, unexpected appearance of Saruman in the middle of what was left of Edoras would certainly wreck the rules of his game. But he hadn't been able to resist coming in person to witness her final moments.

Slowly, forcing her eyes to focus, Brooke met O' Brien's gaze, then Faramir's, and, last of all, Riker's. Aragorn's. Then she turned her gaze to Q. He nodded. Brooke tried to nod back, but couldn't tell if her head had actually moved at all, or if the movement would be perceptible to the others.

It didn't matter. He knew. She tried very hard to smile as her vision clouded, the pain overwhelming her thoughts at last. She gasped once more, but so little air came. And she no longer had the strength to fight back. Panic swept her for a brief second as she realized, but she was too tired, and in far too much pain, to be afraid any more.

She closed her eyes.

* * *

><p>Darkness. But not the darkness that had come with Saruman's spell. Not the darkness that haunted Moria or that lay over the land of Mordor. And not the cold, empty darkness of space. This darkness had a life. A being. But its purpose was not an evil one, as she had believed. Death was no longer the enemy, as it had seemed in Moria. It was neither friend nor foe. Neither absolutely good nor inherently evil. It could not be explained in such terms. It simply was.<p>

And it did not last. For a few moments, the darkness was there, welcoming her, washing over her and through her. And then it, too, passed, engulfing her in a farewell embrace before being blown gently away as if by a wind.

And it was a wind, she realized as the darkness faded and she could see once more. The same wind that now blew her hair, tossing it about her face. The wind that rippled the waves of the sea before her, tossed the sand about her feet, and played with the gulls that circled overhead.

The tide lapped at her boots, splashing them playfully before the sea called the water back once more. It was a call Brooke had often imagined. A feeling that her walks by the sea on the holodeck had never been able to capture fully. The sea called to them all. To the tide as it ventured forth and then returned. To the sands of the shore, drawn closer and closer by its waves. To the gulls who answered by diving to feed off the bounty the waters offered.

Brooke reached down as a wave rolled towards her. It was cold to the touch, but not terribly so. She brought her hand to her mouth. The taste was wonderful, like the salty air that now filled her lungs. Breath after breath, she took it in, savoring the smell. The joy. The life.

"He did very well," came a voice.

Brooke smiled. He had appeared out of nowhere. "Who?" She could think of quite a few people who deserved to be recognized for the part they had played, but somehow guessed that Q wasn't referring to any of them.

"Tolkien," Q replied, his gaze on the sea. "This is his concoction, after all – not mine. I wouldn't have known, I suppose, what to do with death. After all, I've never died."

Brooke nodded. "No. But you've seen death. Seen people die."

Q smiled. "Well, I suppose you can tell me. Is that the same thing?"

"No," Brooke said quietly, after a moment. "No, it's like anything else: different when it's you. Things always look different from the other side."

Q nodded. "I thought it might. Come. I need to show you something."

Brooke followed without hesitation as Q led her along the beach. The sun and the wind were so inviting. Brooke removed her armor, her sword which hung at her side, and, finally, her boots and socks. The water lapped at her bare feet, at times reaching the bottoms of her trousers.

Then she saw it in the distance – a long pier, and, docked there, a small ship. It was a beautiful silver-grey. The sail, the same shade of grey, bore the emblem of the White Tree. Together, she and Q walked the length of the pier.

As they reached the ship, Brooke looked up at Q, who smiled sadly. This was where they would part. Where she was going, it was beyond even Q's power to follow. She turned back to the ship. No helm. No oars. "The wind will bear you safely where you are going," Q explained, knowing her question before she even asked.

Brooke nodded. Where she was going. She didn't even fully understand what that meant. But that wasn't important. In fact, it made it more exciting. An adventure.

She laughed. A warm, rich laugh that flooded every corner of her being. This was what she had been afraid of. What she had been fighting. What she had hated for taking her mother, and then Riker. Now she stepped onto the ship freely, immersing herself in the thrill of a new journey.

Q held out his hand, and she shook it firmly. "Thank you, Q."

"You're welcome, Brooke." Brooke. Not Boromir. Their characters' identities had faded with her death. It was Brooke Warrington, not Boromir, who was setting out on this adventure. And it was not Saruman, but Q, who was there to see her off.

Holding the ship steady with one hand, Q helped Brooke raise the anchor. A breeze filled the sails, and Q released the ship. Brooke watched him as the wind bore her ship steadily away from shore. The sand, the pier, and even Q grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

At last, when she could see them no longer, Brooke turned her gaze to the open sea. The wind blew her hair wildly. The sun shone on her face. The gulls overhead repeated their call of greeting. Brooke spread her arms wide, taking in the sight, the sound, the smell. The beauty. The life.

And she smiled.


	23. Entr'acte

**Disclaimer: **None of this is mine. If anything, it's even less mine now that we've said a fond farewell to my only original character in the story. As the Ood would say, her song has ended, but the story never ends. (Well, not 'never,' but certainly not any time soon. There's quite a bit of story left.)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Three<br>****Entr'acte**

Picard's gaze never left the Palantir. Moments after disappearing suddenly as Riker knelt calling Brooke's name, Q returned. Together, the two of them bore silent witness to Brooke's final hours. How long they waited, Picard did not know. The night was still dark when Q left to pay his last respects in person, assuring Picard that the Palantir would continue to function in his absence.

And it did. Only a few moments later, he saw Brooke close her eyes. Slowly, the image in the Palantir faded into darkness.

Brooke was dead.

Picard set the Palantir down on the table, letting the thought sink in. He couldn't quite believe it, though. It didn't make sense that Q would allow it to happen. And, even if Brooke was dead, Riker's presence in Rohan was proof enough that it was still within Q's power to change his mind. His decision was not – could not possibly be – final.

What was he waiting for? An admission that Brooke had been right – that they should have left Lothlorien? A promise that he would continue to participate in the game? Or was Brooke simply a piece now out of play, waiting to be returned once the Ring was destroyed? Did Q think Brooke's return at the end of the game would serve as an incentive for them to continue?

"Oh, come now, Gandalf," Q shook his head, reappearing once more. "The stakes of the game would be awfully low if I were to return all of you – dead or alive – to your precious ship once we were through here. Where would be the motivation? You would all have jumped off the Bridge of Khazad-dum if I were playing by those rules."

Picard scoffed. "Q, Brooke was the reason you brought us here. You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you would allow her to die."

"I just did."

"Don't pretend that you don't have the power to bring her back with a snap of your fingers."

Q studied his hand for a moment, as if pondering whether or not to do as Picard suggested. Instead, he closed his hand lightly into a fist. "What you fail to recognize, old friend, is that, out of respect for Brooke, I had already laid aside that power."

"What do you mean?"

"My participation in this game has been limited by its one rule. A rule that she placed on it herself: _Where's the fun in a game you can end as soon as the tide starts to turn against you?_ I have chosen to abide by the spirit of that rule, not only the letter. Just as I will not end the game at a whim, I also refuse to change the nature of the game mid-play to suit my liking. From the outset, the prospects of victory and defeat have been real. So, too, then, survival and death must be real, or the game loses its meaning. Its reality. And the one thing Brooke wanted from this game was for it to be real."

Picard shook his head. "Impressive words, Q. But what about Riker? You brought him back."

"Would you rather I had not?"

"Of course not. But how can you expect us to believe that death is final if you have already proven that it isn't?"

"Aragorn was an exception. An exception I allowed myself to make because it was consistent with the books. Gandalf died in Moria and returned more powerful. It would be rude and unfair of me not to allow one of you the same opportunity. But, rest assured, it will not happen again. Brooke would be quite disappointed in me if she somehow found herself back on your little ship."

"I don't believe you."

"I didn't expect you to. But, fortunately for you, you're not foolish enough to make the same mistake twice. The game will continue."

Picard crossed his arms. "At the moment, I don't have much say in the matter."

Q smiled playfully. "That will change, Gandalf, old friend. That will change." He lifted the Palantir once more.

* * *

><p>Brooke was dead.<p>

Cradling the teen's lifeless body against his chest, Faramir wept silently. Every tear he had held in check for his brother's sake during the past few hours now spilled onto Brooke's body. Riker knelt beside him in silence, as if his presence could ease the young man's pain.

Riker wiped the tears from his eyes. There would be time to grieve later. Right now, they had larger problems. They were on their own. Alone in a world that none of them understood as Brooke had. Unless, maybe…

Slowly, Riker rose and tapped O' Brien lightly on the shoulder, motioning towards the door. O' Brien nodded and followed, not without a glance back at Faramir, who was too overwhelmed by his own grief to even notice their departure.

It was still raining, but only lightly. Riker waited as O' Brien hesitantly stretched his leg; he had been limping as they left. Deciding against trying to stand for any length of time, O' Brien pulled over a piece of Edoras and sat down. "Sorry, Sir. I hurt my leg when—"

Riker held up a hand, then sat down beside him. "It's all right, Hama; we've all earned some rest. And don't break character. No 'sir's."

"Yes, my lord."

"No, that won't do, either. I'm a king, but not _your _king. Just call me Aragorn."

O' Brien nodded. "All right, Aragorn. You probably have questions."

"Dozens." But there wasn't any question about which should come first. "Where is Gandalf?"

O' Brien didn't miss a beat remembering who Gandalf was. "He's at Isengard."

Isengard. Explanations could wait. With the Captain gone, he was in command. "And Frodo?"

"He's in Fangorn Forest."

Fangorn. Treebeard. Ents. The names fell into place. "So It's safe?"

"Well, safe as any forest can be that's so close to Isengard. And Boromir said something about Ents, so—"

"Not the forest, Hama. Is _It_ safe?"

O' Brien looked puzzled for a moment, but then realized. "Yes. Yes, It's safe, but not with Frodo. Pippin has It."

"And where is he?"

"He left the night before last."

"Alone?"

"He was the only one who could get past the Uruk-Hai unnoticed. I sent him to Fangorn to find the Ents and bring help."

"All the way from Fangorn? They would never have—"

"—made it in time. I know."

Riker nodded. So O' Brien understood. And that accounted for everyone who was missing. The Captain. Wesley. Data. "All right," Riker said quietly, trying to remember everything he could about Rohan. "Fill me in."

* * *

><p>"…and that's where we found him, left for dead. The others showed up pretty quickly after that. They'd been following the Uruk-Hai, and decided to come here for help rather than try to take on the entire army by themselves. But King Theoden, you see, he was in a bad state. Grima had him under some sort of spell. But Boromir healed him."<p>

"Healed him?"

"Well, seeing as you're the one who pulled him out of it earlier, you've probably got the best guess as to what happed, but, near as I can figure, he took Theoden's place." O' Brien hesitated, then added, quietly, "We think Saruman is Q."

"He is," Riker nodded.

O' Brien let that sink in. "I'm not sure whether I was hoping to be right or wrong about that one. Anyway, we were going to ride to Isengard and attack, but Saruman beat us to it. We fought hard, but, as you can see, this is what's left, and even this would be gone by now if you hadn't come."

"And King Theoden – he's dead, then?"

O' Brien nodded. "Yes. Eomer's king now. He's young, and a bit of a hothead, perhaps, but an honest, decent sort. And the people, such as are left, will follow him without question. He's a good man, Aragorn. Whatever you're planning, we can trust him."

"It's not much of a plan yet," Riker admitted. "In the morning, I'll take Faramir and ride for Isengard. If I'm right, the Ents will be there – hopefully with Frodo and Pippin. If all goes well, they will return with us – and Gandalf, as well."

"_If _you're right about the Ents. If you're wrong, it's a suicide mission."

"That it is."

"I'll come with you—"

"No, Hama. If I'm wrong – if we don't return – I need you here. The others will need you here."

"Aragorn." O' Brien dropped his voice lower. "I know Rohan well enough. But I'm not a traveler or a scholar. I'm a door warden. Beyond our lands, there is much that is unknown to me, and I am not certain how much I will be able to help your friends."

Riker smiled. He knew what O' Brien was trying to say. All that he knew about Middle-Earth came from his experiences in Rohan, not from any previous knowledge. But the fact that he had been able to convey that in Hama's words, without saying anything the least bit suspicious, told Riker that he was making the right choice. The others would need O' Brien if he did not return. They would need his knowledge, certainly, but, more than that, they would need his example.

"I am certain you will do what you can," Riker answered reassuringly. "That will be enough. Besides, your place is with your king. He trusts you, Hama, and a king does not give his trust lightly."

Riker stood and offered O' Brien a hand. O' Brien took it, and Riker helped him to his feet. Together, they went back inside.

Riker quickly found Faramir, still kneeling by Brooke's body. Riker took a seat beside him. "Faramir?"

Faramir turned. "Yes, my lord?"

"I know the timing could be better, but time is short. In the morning, I ride for Isengard. If you wish to remain here, I understand. But if you wish to accompany me, there is no one I would rather have at my side."

Faramir nodded. "Then at your side is where I will be, my lord, and gladly. Here, I will find nothing but grief. I will ride with you."

Riker lay down, trying to ignore the hustle and bustle and the smell of the dead and the moans of the dying. "Then get some sleep, if you can. Morning will come soon."

* * *

><p>"Interesting choice," Q noted as he laid the Palantir on the table. "Of everyone he could have picked to come to Isengard with him—"<p>

"He chose someone who would be able to _find_ Isengard," Picard finished.

Q smirked. "Because the Uruk-Hai certainly didn't leave a trail of destruction that he would have been able to follow."

Picard let that one go. He was too tired to argue. Q nodded. "Aragorn had a good suggestion. You should rest while you can." He snapped his fingers, and a bed appeared. "Sleep well, old friend." With another snap, Q disappeared.

Picard lay down almost immediately, amazed by how tired he was. He hadn't slept, after all, since arriving at Isengard. Soon, he was sleeping soundly.

* * *

><p>The view was perfect. The first rays of dawn were beginning to show. The Ents were quickly approaching, crushing what remained of the Uruk-Hai with remarkable ease. And, perched atop Treebeard, who led the charge, sat Frodo and Pippin.<p>

Perched at the very top of the Tower of Orthanc, Q watched their approach with a slight smile. It was a sight Brooke would have appreciated. His gaze turned once more to his hand. What harm could it do? He snapped his fingers.

But nothing happened. He snapped again. And again. But that was impossible. He didn't _feel_ powerless. And, sure enough, when he thought of a flowerpot, instead, a pot of petunias appeared beside him. The same happened with a chair, a chocolate sundae, and a small, white rabbit. Soon, a curious menagerie of objects surrounded him.

But Brooke did not – could not – reappear. The rules wouldn't permit it. Or perhaps he would not allow himself. Or maybe Middle-Earth itself had rebelled, deciding that her death was final.

Q snapped his fingers once more, and the collage around him vanished, all except for an assortment of fireworks. These he exploded one by one, and a portion of his anger took flight with each, barely contained, then bursting into an array of light and sound, and finally fading away into the early morning air, a final tribute to Boromir of Gondor.

As the last sparks of the last firework dwindled out of sight, Q sat down, dangling his legs over the edge of the tower. Now that his initial rage had passed, he managed a smile. He was glad, almost, that it hadn't worked. Brooke wouldn't have wanted it to. So, instead, he sat alone, watching as the Ents – and two Hobbits – puzzled over the bizarre fireworks display, wondering what was in store for them as they drew nearer, never guessing its true purpose.

They met no further resistance. The Uruks were quickly defeated, the tower surrounded. But they could not break down the door or tear apart the stones. Orthanc itself was protected by magic. None of the attackers would enter unless invited.

Q smiled. He wasn't ready for that just yet. After all, it would be rude to invite them in only to keep them waiting for the other guests.

* * *

><p>It was past dawn when Riker woke, torn between their need for rest and their need for haste. He wasn't certain what to expect once they reached Isengard. He hoped to find the Ents there, but any of the changes they had already made to the plot could affect that. Or maybe his timing was off. Maybe the Ents were still gathering in Fangorn for their … What was it called?...<p>

Entmoot. That was it. Riker shook his head. He shouldn't have been able to remember that. And yet he was certain – absolutely certain – that a gathering of Ents was called an Entmoot. What else would it be called?

Riker shook the thought from his mind. It didn't matter – not at the moment, anyway. He woke Faramir, and, together, they wove their way through the bodies and sleeping people.

Eomer and O' Brien were waiting for them outside by their horses. "Hama told me you would be leaving," Eomer explained. "Your horses are ready. If I may ask a favor…"

"Of course."

"You will pass through several villages on your way to Isengard. Ask them to send aid here, if they are able, and to send out riders. Tell them to summon every rider, every soldier, every able-bodied man, and that we will gather here to prepare."

"To prepare?"

"This war is not over, my friend. You ride to Isengard, perhaps to find victory there, if we are to believe in legends of tree-herders. But, if you return, war awaits you to the east when you return to your own city. And it is there that we will go, once Saruman is no longer a threat. You rode to the aid of our people, Aragorn. We will ride to yours."

Riker stared for a moment, stunned. This was more than he could have hoped for. "Thank you, Eomer," he managed at last. "I will deliver your message." He mounted his horse, and Faramir followed suit. Together, they rode towards Isengard.


	24. The Voice of Q

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Four<br>****The Voice of Q**

Riker and Faramir rode through the day and far into the night. In the first village they stopped at, they were offered food and new horses, and accepted both; their own horses were exhausted from the journey from Gondor and deserved a rest. Everywhere they stopped, whether it was a village or a single farmer's hut, they delivered Eomer's message.

Faramir said little; perhaps he, too, was lost in thought. Riker's mind was racing, trying to form a plan. If the Ents hadn't arrived, the plan was fairly straightforward: ride back to Edoras, inform them, and, if possible, ride to Fangorn – to find the Ents, or, at least, Data and Wesley. Attacking Isengard alone to try to rescue the Captain was foolish and out of the question.

If the Ents had already arrived, things would be better, but also more complicated. Hopefully, Wesley and Data would be with them, but, if not, they would have to go to Fangorn to search for them, and, with Data, the Ring. And how would he convince Q to release the Captain? What could he possibly offer him or threaten him with?

And what if he was somehow able to rescue the Captain, and they all returned safely to Edoras? Eomer planned to ride for Gondor. For that, at least, Riker was grateful; it saved him the trouble of having to persuade everyone. But what then? What good would it do? He couldn't remember exactly where Frodo would have been by this time, but he as certain it was much closer to Mordor than any of them were now. Frodo had never come to Rohan. But they didn't have much say in the matter. Rohan was where they were, whether it coincided with the book's plot or not.

Faramir finally broke the silence. "My lord, there are lights ahead. A few houses. Perhaps we can rest there for the night."

"What's left of it," Riker agreed, and they turned towards the lights. The farmers took them in without much question, and, in the morning, after a generous breakfast, they were on their way again.

The buildings thinned and finally disappeared altogether as they drew closer to Isengard. Still, they saw no sign of any Uruk-Hai. Finally, as the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon, they could see a tower. Closer and closer they came, and Riker allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. The tower – Orthanc, the name came to him unbidden – was completely surrounded by trees.

Riker saw Faramir's eyes grow wide with awe – and a hint of delight– as one of the Ents approached them. As the Ent drew nearer, Riker could see a figure perched in its branches. Data.

"Welcome, young travelers," the Ent said in a deep, rumbling voice. "Who might you be?"

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Faramir, son of Denethor. We are friends of Gandalf the Grey."

"Treebeard," came Data's voice from high above their heads. "May I speak with my friends?"

"Of course, young Pippin," Treebeard answered, and set Data down beside them.

Riker dismounted. "Good to see you, Pippin. Faramir, this is Pippin, one of my companions, a Hobbit of the Shire. Pippin, this is Faramir of Gondor."

"It is good to meet you. And it is good to see that you are well, Aragorn. Do you bring news of our other companions?"

Riker nodded. "Merry, Sam, Legolas, and Gimli are at Edoras. They are safe for the moment; Faramir and I arrived with reinforcements. But Boromir is dead."

It was good that it was growing dark; otherwise, Faramir might have found Data's lack of an emotional response a little odd. Instead, the android simply delivered his own news. "Gandalf, we assume, is inside the tower, but we have seen no one. Frodo is with us, as well, but he is quite ill."

Wesley? Sick? Injured? "Take me to him."

* * *

><p>Wesley was inside some sort of storeroom; perhaps Data had thought it best to keep him out of the cold. "Stay out here," Riker instructed Faramir. "See if you and Treebeard can figure out a way to get inside." That would take a while, at the rate the Ents decided anything. Riker hurried inside with Data and closed the door.<p>

Several lamps provided enough light to see by. Wesley lay on a few overturned storage crates. It wasn't much, but it was enough. "Commander," Data observed as Riker knelt to examine Wesley. "You are alive."

Riker smiled. "Yes. Yes, I suppose I am. Data … Do you still have It? Is It safe?"

"No and yes," Data replied. "It is safe. But Wesley insisted that I return It to him."

Riker nodded. That was all he needed to know. He gave Wesley's shoulder a gentle shake. "Wesley. Wesley."

After a few moments and several more shakes, Wesley groaned softly. "Who…?"

"Wesley, it's Commander Riker. I need you to tell me what happened."

"Commander … Riker? Then I'm … dead?"

"No, Wesley. You're alive. We're both alive. Now I need you to tell me what happened." He already had a guess, but he was desperately hoping Wesley would say something to contradict it.

"Brooke and I … Orcs … we were shot … Brooke said … poisoned …"

Riker slammed his fist against a crate. But, before he could do anything else, there was a knock on the door. "My lord Aragorn?" Faramir's voice. Tense. Anxious.

"Come in." Riker rose as Faramir entered. "That was rather quick."

"We have not found a way inside," Faramir explained, his face pale. "But Saruman has come out – onto a balcony, at least. And he is asking to speak with you."

Riker turned to Data. "Stay with Frodo. I'll return as soon as I can. Faramir, come with me."

"Do not believe what he says, my lord," Faramir advised as they approached the tower. "Even defeated and trapped inside his own tower, he is powerful. His voice…"

Riker stopped. "Faramir? What did he tell you?"

Faramir looked away. "It doesn't matter. I know he was lying."

"Faramir." Riker placed a hand on the young man's shoulder. "What did he say?"

"He said that Mithrandir was responsible for Boromir's death, that you and Mithrandir were using the rest of us as pawns, that we mean nothing to you. He said that all you seek is your own power, that, once we have served our purpose, we will be sent on some futile, dangerous errand, just as Boromir and Frodo were sent to their deaths." He looked up. "But I do not believe it, my lord. I do not know Mithrandir as well as I should like, but I know you. You risked your own life to tread the Paths of the Dead, without even knowing whether you would arrive in time to save anyone. You kept your word and released them from their oath. And you did everything you could for Boromir. My brother trusted you, Aragorn, and so do I. You needn't fear that Saruman will persuade me otherwise."

Riker nodded. Brooke had known he would need Faramir's loyalty. And she had assured it. "Then come, Faramir. Let us speak with Saruman."

They approached the tower carefully, as if lightning might come hurtling down if they ventured too close. Riker looked up. Q stood on a balcony high above their heads. "So you have brought your master, then," Q scoffed. "Then a pawn you will remain, Faramir, son of Denethor. But you, Aragorn." Riker could practically see Q's smirk. "Perhaps you can be reasonable."

Riker crossed his arms. "Where is Gandalf?"

"He is quite safe, though currently occupied. He isn't the one you should be concerned with, Aragorn."

"Frodo – you can heal him?"

"Perhaps. But we should not discuss such things shouting from balcony to ground and back."

Riker knew the answer already, but he had to try. "Then come down, Saruman. No harm will come to you."

"And these Ents – Do you speak for them, as well? It is no small grudge that they harbor against me. Or perhaps you wish to drag me to Rohan to stand before the king and answer for what my armies have done. Or maybe you will simply kill me yourself, Aragorn. No, I do not think I will come down. So the question is: Will _you_ come up? Do you care for the Halfling enough to meet me on my own terms, to abide by my rules, if it might save his life? Or was I right? Do your 'friends' mean so little to you?"

"Don't, my lord," Faramir whispered. "We can find a way to save your friend. Once you enter, he will not allow you to leave."

That would probably have been true of Saruman. But this was Q. In the book, Riker remembered, no one had entered Isengard – not even Gandalf. But, in the book, Saruman hadn't had prisoners. He hadn't really had anything to bargain with. And Frodo hadn't been dying.

Riker turned to Faramir. "The same has often been said of the Paths of the Dead – that, if we entered, we would not leave alive."

That was enough to reveal his intentions. "Then I will follow you, my lord."

Riker turned back to Q. "We will come up," he called.

Q laughed. "Do you think me a fool? _You_ will come up, Aragorn, alone and unarmed. Then we will talk."

Riker unbuckled Anduril from his belt and handed it to Faramir. "All right. We play by his rules. In case I'm wrong, start searching through his storerooms for anything that might help Frodo. I should return before then, but, if I have not returned by sunrise, take whatever action you see fit. I trust your judgment, Faramir." Then he called up to Q. "I will come up, Saruman."

"Then come. The door will open for you." Q disappeared from the balcony.

Riker nodded to Faramir. "Go, Faramir." As Faramir hurried off, Riker climbed the stairs. At the top was a large, heavy door. It opened, however, with a single, gentle pull.

Q stood on the other side. "I'm impressed, Aragorn. Walk with me."

Riker closed the door behind him and followed Q up several flights of stairs to a large, mostly empty room. A table and several chairs stood in the center. Q sat down. Riker hesitated, but then sat down opposite Q.

Q nodded approvingly. "More than I've gotten out of Gandalf. I suppose you hero types don't normally sit down and talk with the enemy."

Riker leaned back in his chair. "We do if the enemy is willing to talk. And I have quite an incentive to listen to what you have to say."

Q smiled. "If you're referring to Frodo, you needn't fret. Your simple gesture of goodwill has saved his life. Even as we speak, Faramir is opening a jar that contains the antidote. He will run to Pippin, convinced – though he knows not why – that what he has found will cure Frodo. Pippin will find no cause to disagree, and, after drinking merely a mouthful, Frodo will begin to recover."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. Now that you are here, it is mine to give. It was that important to me that you come up, Aragorn. Besides, the Halfling is of no use to either of us if he is dead."

Riker nodded, satisfied. There was no reason for Q to lie. "All right. Now let's talk about the Captain."

Q grinned. "Oh, but wouldn't you much rather talk _with _Gandalf?" He snapped his fingers, and Picard appeared in a seat beside Riker.

"Q, what is – Riker – what?"

"It's all right, Sir; he hasn't captured me," Riker assured him. "I'm here to talk."

"Talk? With _him_?"

Q grinned. "Aragorn is here to try to convince me to join you. Gandalf gave it a go in the book, and said that it came to the balance of a hair. Have you anything to say that might tip that balance? Either of you?"

Riker turned to Picard, who nodded. "If you have an idea, Number One…"

Riker turned to Q and said the one thing he could think of, the one thing that would appeal to Q, the one argument that would have seemed ridiculous to the real Saruman. "It'll be more fun."

"How so?"

Riker had no doubt that Q already knew what he meant, but the entity wanted to hear it from Riker. "All right, say you don't join us, say you keep us locked up in here. You tell Sauron you have us, and he sends a few Nazgul to take us to Mordor. While they're here, they sense the Ring, and Sauron knows what we're up to. Checkmate. We're all dead before Frodo even sets foot in Mordor, let alone gets anywhere near Mount Doom."

"And if I let you go? You have a plan?"

Riker hesitated. He had a large part of a plan. He didn't like it, but he had it. "Yes," he nodded. "I have a plan. But we—" he indicated himself and Picard, "—would need to discuss it first. Alone."

"As you wish." With a snap of his fingers, Q was gone.

"That's as alone as we'll get, I suppose," Riker reasoned. "He can eavesdrop easily enough, but I don't think he will. He'd want to be surprised." He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. "Are you all right, Sir?"

Picard nodded. "I was injured, but I fell asleep a while ago – I don't know how long – and Q seems to have used that time to heal my injuries. How are you?"

"Alive – which seems to have surprised everyone but you."

"Q has been using a Palantir to keep me informed."

A Palantir. One of the Seeing-Stones of the Kings of Gondor. "Then you know that Data and Wesley are here, and that the others are at Edoras."

"Yes."

"And that Brooke is dead."

"Yes."

"I don't understand, Sir. Why would he continue the game? She's the reason he brought us here. Why – Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter why."

"No, I suppose not."

"Wesley was poisoned, but it seems my willingness to talk was enough to convince Q to save him. He has the Ring, too – Data gave It back."

"And now you have a plan to destroy It?"

"Well, the plan is the same as ever – take It to Mordor and drop It in Mount Doom. But if all of us start riding to Mordor like … well, like a Nazgul's chasing us, we'll look awfully suspicious."

"So what do you suggest?"

"I should take Wesley. Just the two of us. If Q can give us a map—"

"Data has a map."

"Perfect. We can take the shortest route to Gondor on horseback. Once we reach the Anduin, we leave our horses, cross the river, and continue on foot. There's a pass by Minas Morgul called Cirith Ungol – a secret entrance into Mordor. All we have to do is find it."

"That's all?"

"Well, after that, there's Mordor. Dust, rocks, filth, and hordes of Orcs."

Picard nodded, and Riker knew he could tell that wasn't it. There was something else. Something Riker was holding back. "Why only you?" Picard asked. "You and Wesley? Alone? Why?"

"Because, with Brooke gone, I have the best idea what's going on; if something goes wrong, I'll be able to improvise. Because a larger group would attract attention. Because you – as Gandalf – will be needed elsewhere, and Sauron would notice a Wizard trying to sneak into Mordor. Because we don't need the drama it would cause if I showed up in Gondor. And because, Sir, there's a part of this plan that I am not very excited about."


	25. A Conspiracy Masked

**Disclaimer: **And it is ... still not mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Five<br>****A Conspiracy Masked**

Riker explained his plan. All of it. Picard listened intently. Riker knew he was already trying to think of something else – anything else – that would have a chance of success. But he also knew that, in the end, Picard would agree. Because this was the only way.

"…and once the Ring is destroyed, if Q keeps his word, we all return to the _Enterprise_." There was silence for a moment. "The End," Riker finished with a shrug, trying to lighten the mood. "That's all I've got."

"I don't like it, Number One," Picard concluded.

That didn't mean he wouldn't agree. It meant he was desperately trying to think of something better. "I know, Sir. Believe me, I don't like it, either."

"Why not someone else? Perhaps Data–"

"I thought of that, Sir. But Data is a Hobbit. Sauron knows that a Hobbit has the Ring. If Data – or Geordi or Dr. Crusher – were to go, instead, we would tip our hand. An Elf or a Dwarf might be even more suspicious, in a way, being so far from their own lands. That rules out Troi and Worf, and O' Brien, as well, for the same reason. That leaves you and me, Sir."

"Then I'll do it."

Riker shook his head. "You can't. Sauron is watching you, Sir. You're a Wizard. He would sense your presence long before you entered Mordor. Besides, Sir," he added with a smile, "it's a dangerous away mission, and, as your First Officer, I'm not going to let you go. It has to be me, Sir."

"And the second part of your plan – how, exactly, am I supposed to convince soldiers from Gondor to follow me?"

"There's a man named Faramir waiting outside with Wesley and Data. If I give the word, he will follow you without question."

"Could you ask him to take your place, then?"

"I could. And I have no doubt he would volunteer, if he knew what I was planning. But you need him, Sir. Gondor needs him."

"I thought you were their king."

"I am. But they don't know me. They know Faramir. They love him. And they will follow him, even under the shadow of the black wings."

"What?"

Riker shook his head. "That's been happening, Sir – words and phrases coming to my mind."

"How long?"

"Since we arrived in Rohan, I suppose. Since I … since I spoke to Brooke before she died."

"Do you think she did something to you? Or Q? Could it be his doing?"

"It could. But if I had to guess … I don't think so, Sir. I think it was me. When I healed Brooke, when I broke Q's spell … it wasn't all me. It was Aragorn, too. Somehow, I was drawing on the strength of the character, the power of _this_ world. There's a power here, and, whatever it is, among other things, it's helping my memory. Deanna will probably want a long talk with me once we get back, but I don't think it's doing any harm.

"As I was saying, Sir, all you have to do is convince Faramir to follow you. The soldiers will follow him. And Eomer is waiting at Edoras, ready to ride to Gondor at my say-so, as soon as he's sure that Rohan is safe from Saruman. I saved his land, so now he wants to help me save mine."

"You seem to have made a few friends in high places."

Riker nodded. "I've been in a position to. You've been here with Q."

"Whom you convinced to help us with four words."

"Well, he hasn't agreed to let us go yet. But I think he will. So far, he's been willing to give us a sporting chance. So do we have a plan?"

Picard nodded reluctantly. "Make it so."

"I will, Sir. And there's one more thing."

"What is it, Number One?"

"Faramir. He's Boromir's brother. He will have questions, and, sooner or later, he will need answers – answers I couldn't give him. He'll want to know what happened to the Fellowship after you left Moria, what happened to Brooke."

"I see. What should I tell him?"

"The truth – whatever that is. He will believe what you tell him, but the truth would be simplest, and less trouble than coming up with a plausible story. And I wouldn't worry about the truth not being believable – Brooke was enough like the Boromir he would have known. Faramir will understand that the two of you had your … differences."

"Very well," Picard agreed. "So now what?"

"Saruman!" Riker called. "Saruman, we have a plan."

Immediately, Q reappeared. "You have a plan? Well, from the looks on your faces, it's a fun one, too. Well done, Aragorn; you've earned yourself an ally. As for you, Gandalf the Grey—" He snapped his fingers, and Picard's robes became a dazzling white. Q grinned. "Or, should I say, Gandalf the White?" In his hands, Q held a new, shining white staff.

Riker studied Q skeptically. "You're _giving _him more power? Just like that?"

Q shook his head. "No, Aragorn. I am merely giving him the means to use the power he already possesses." He held out the staff. "It's yours if you want it, old friend."

Picard hesitated, but reached out and took it. Q smiled. "Is there anything else that you will need?"

Riker nodded. "Enough food for a long journey. Horses for Data, the Captain, and Faramir to return to Edoras, and for Wesley and me to be on our way."

Q nodded. "The Ents have already found where I keep my food. Horses are on their way. And you might also need this." He snapped his fingers, and a round bundle appeared in his hand.

The Palantir, Riker knew without even being able to see it. But what was he supposed to do with that? The answer came to him without a second thought. He took the bundle from Q and handed it to Picard. "It's the Palantir. Give it to Data to look after; his curiosity will take care of the rest."

He looked at Q, who smiled approvingly. "And for you, Aragorn." He held out a small, glass object.

Riker took it, and, immediately, it glowed brighter. "Thank you," he nodded, tucking it inside a pocket. "Can we go now?"

"Of course. You've been wonderful guests." He snapped his fingers, and they were all standing beside the door. "Come back and visit any time."

Riker opened the door. It was dark outside, but he could see Data, Wesley, and Faramir standing at the bottom of the stairs, waiting. Data held a torch. Riker held up his hand before they could say anything. "We must talk privately – the five of us. Come."

They followed him away from the tower, past the storerooms, and out into the open, under the stars. Riker glanced at Picard, who nodded, and they all sat down. Riker again looked to Picard for permission to continue. He knew he had it, but he needed Faramir to see that the two of them were in agreement.

"The time for secrets is past," Riker began. "Faramir, some unusual things will soon be asked of you, and you have a right to know why. I told you that I was one of a company of nine that set out from Rivendell, but I never said why or where we were going." He nodded towards Wesley. "Faramir, this is Frodo Baggins. He has in his possession the One Ring, the Ring of Power taken by Isildur, King of Gondor, long ago. We are traveling to Mordor – to Mount Doom, the only place where the Ring can be destroyed. Very soon, Frodo and I will set out to continue the journey. Pippin, may I see your map?"

Data removed the map from his pocket, and Riker unrolled it. He studied it for a moment, unsure. The best thing to do, he decided, was just ask. "Faramir, there is a secret entrance into Mordor, a path called Cirith Ungol, by Minas Morgul. What would be the best way to get there?"

Riker half-expected Faramir to insist that Cirith Ungol was too dangerous, that there must be a better way. But he didn't. They had braved the Paths of the Dead together; Faramir had seen what Riker was willing to do to get where he needed to go. So Faramir simply turned to the map and considered the question for a moment.

"Crossing the River at Osgiliath would attract attention. Your best chance is to cross the Anduin here, at Cair Andros, and then turn south."

"How long will that take?"

"From here, Cair Andros is four days' journey. From there, Minas Morgul will be two days' journey on foot, and then a difficult climb up the mountain pass."

"Seven days, then?"

"More or less."

"Faramir, time will be crucial. I need a definite answer. Seven days?"

"Yes."

"And once we're in Mordor, how far to Mount Doom?"

"A three day's walk, I would say, if you take the straightest route."

"Good. Now, if a small force – a few hundred riders on horseback – were to leave from Minas Tirith, how long would it take them to reach the Black Gate?"

"My lord?"

"How long, Faramir?"

"On horseback? Three days."

"You, Eomer, and Gandalf are going to command that host. You and Eomer will each choose two hundred men whom you can trust, and ride to the Black Gate. You must arrive there as Frodo and I are nearing the end of our journey. If all goes well, you will prove to be a sufficient distraction."

"There is one problem, my lord. My father may have other plans, my lord."

Picard opened his mouth to tell Faramir what he could do with his father's plans, but Riker shook his head. Faramir wasn't trying to wriggle his way out of the situation. His repeated use of "my lord" made his intentions clear. He simply wanted Riker to make his request an official order; only then could he justify to his men why he was disobeying his father, the Steward of Gondor. "If the Lord Denethor has other plans, Faramir, I order you to disregard them. And, as your king, I order you to take command of two hundred soldiers and lead them to the Black Gate."

Faramir nodded, and Riker thought he saw a hint of a smile. "I will obey, my lord Aragorn."

"Thank you, Faramir." He turned to Wesley. "We should leave as soon as possible."

"Just us, Sir … Aragorn? The two of us? Where are the others? Are they all right? Is Sam all right?"

Riker glanced at Picard, then repeated the news for the third time. "Sam, Merry, Legolas, and Gimli are safe at Edoras. They will be riding to Gondor with the others. Boromir is dead."

"Dead?" Wesley stared. "From the poison? But I was shot, too – but maybe that water Treebeard gave me did something. But – she couldn't – Commander, this is all my fault." He buried his face in his hands.

Riker and Picard exchanged a glance. Riker shook his head. Better to let this play out. Faramir got up and sat down beside Wesley. "You knew my brother well, then?"

Wesley looked up, taking in the similarity for the first time. "Boromir was your brother?"

"Yes."

"Faramir, I'm so sorry." Some small corner of his mind registered the ridiculousness of apologizing to a fictional character, but it was the closest he could come to apologizing to Brooke herself. "It was my fault, Faramir. He was trying to protect me, to protect the Quest. But it all went wrong."

Faramir laid a gentle hand on Wesley's shoulder. "What happened, Frodo?"

"He saved us, Faramir. All of us – more than once. He got us through Moria, even after Gandalf was injured and Aragorn was killed. Or, at least, we all thought he was dead – I'm not sure what's going on any more. There was a Balrog, and Boromir fought it off, and the bridge broke, and the Balrog fell, and Boromir almost fell, too.

"And then we went to Lothlorien, and Boromir was the one who convinced the Elves not to shoot us all. We had all decided to stay in Lothlorien, but Boromir, he convinced me to come with him and continue the Quest—"

"Convinced?" Faramir chuckled. "With the help of a blade, I doubt not. Nay, Frodo, do not seek to shield me from the truth. I know my brother. Proud, fearless, often rash. If he was determined to continue on, it would not surprise me to learn that he was willing to use force."

Wesley nodded. "All right – the truth, then. He attacked me, he took the Ring, and he dragged me away with him while I was unconscious. But the thing is, Faramir … he could have kept the Ring for himself. He could have just gone on alone, but he didn't. He gave It back to me. And do you know why? Because he knew that was what you would do, he said. He told me you were wise enough to … to know that there are some perils from which a man must flee. He was afraid – and rightly so – of what It would do to him if he kept It."

Tears shone in Faramir's eyes. Tears of grief, perhaps, but also, Wesley knew, tears of pride for his brother's decision. Brooke had triumphed, in the end, over the Ring's temptation, and that, at least, gave Faramir some comfort. But, finally, Wesley couldn't stall any more. He looked away, afraid of how Faramir might react to what he was about to say. For a moment, there was silence, but, at last, Wesley found the courage to continue.

"When we reached the waterfall – Rauros – we stopped to wait. Boromir knew the others would follow us. But I … I panicked. I took our boat right out into the middle of the river to try to paddle back to find them. I was so scared. I didn't know what I was doing. Boromir chased after me. But there … there were Orcs on the other side of the river. We were both shot.

"We got the boat back to shore, but then the Uruk-Hai came. Your brother was rash and reckless, sure enough, Faramir, but he was also right. If we hadn't left Lothlorien when we did, I don't know what would have happened, but it couldn't have been good. He did what he had to do in order to save all our lives, even if it cost him his own.

"I don't really know what happened after that," Wesley admitted. "Somehow, I ended up with the Ents, and here we are. Faramir, I'm so sorry. If I hadn't – If I hadn't been so stupid—"

There was silence for a moment. At last, Faramir spoke, his voice quiet and gentle. "Frodo. May I tell you a story?"

"A story?"

"Yes. Two brothers were hunting in a forest. The younger brother wandered off on his own, and, after a while, realized he was lost. Suddenly, he was ambushed by bandits. Without thinking, he called for his older brother, who came running immediately. There was a struggle, and the older brother was killed. Help arrived, and the bandits were captured and brought before the king. Now tell me, Frodo. If you were the king, who would you punish for the older brother's death? The younger brother, for his carelessness? Or the men who killed him?"

Wesley looked up. Faramir's face was wet with tears, but there was no anger. No blame. "You … you don't blame me?"

"No, of course not. Frodo, if I am to blame anyone for Boromir's death, should I not blame those who _meant_ him harm? Clearly, though you may have had your disagreements, it was never your intention to lead him to his death. My brother died defending his friends and a Quest he had sworn to protect. That is as he would have wanted it. He would not blame you, and neither do I. You carry a heavy burden, Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Don't carry the weight of Boromir's death."

Wesley wiped a few tears from his cheeks. "Thank you, Faramir. And know this: Your brother's death was not in vain. I _will_ finish this Quest. And, as the Ring falls into the fire, I'll think of him."

Faramir placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. "That is the only thanks he would have asked for: That you finish what you set out to do, and that you remember him with honor." He gave Wesley's shoulder a squeeze. "You must leave soon, Frodo, but, if we both survive, I hope to see you again. You Halflings are a kind-hearted people."

"They are, indeed," Riker agreed. "But come. We have lingered long enough."

* * *

><p>Horses were waiting for them when they returned to the tower. They quickly found enough food, but Riker lingered for a moment in the storeroom, searching.<p>

"Can I help you find something?" came Q's voice, and, immediately, the entity stood beside him. "It would be quicker than looking through all those mixtures yourself and taking a guess."

Riker hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. "All right. But I need you to simply give me what I ask for, no questions asked."

"Very well." Q actually looked quite interested. "What is it you want?"

"Enough poison to leave someone unconscious for a few hours but do no other harm."

Q made a show of rummaging through a few shelves before pulling a small bottle from the back of one. He handed it to Riker; the liquid inside was a deep blue. "Anything else?"

"A dagger. A small one."

Q snapped his fingers and handed Riker a small dagger, which Riker immediately concealed inside his cloak. Then he tucked the bottle inside a pocket. "That'll do."

"May I ask, Aragorn, who, exactly, you are planning to stab and poison?"

Riker smiled wryly. "Oh, you can ask. But, if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."


	26. Two Knives in the Dark

**Disclaimer: **None of this is mine.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Six<br>****Two Knives in the Dark**

Wesley stood outside the door to the storeroom, his face growing pale. Riker had just asked Q for poison. "Anything else?" Q seemed all too happy to comply.

"A dagger. A small one." What was Riker planning? And why come to Q? Why be so secretive? Wesley fiddled with the Ring. "That'll do," Riker approved.

"Might I ask, Aragorn, who, exactly, you are planning to stab and poison?"

Wesley waited. Surely Riker would name off some character they would run into along the way. But the only answer he got was, "Oh, you can ask. But, if I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."

Riker's footsteps came closer. Wesley had no time to think, and less time to run. Before he knew he had planned to do it, the Ring was on his finger. Riker passed right by him. But Q didn't leave the storeroom.

"Why don't you come in, Frodo?" Q asked once Riker was far enough away.

Wesley nearly jumped. He wanted to run – to take the Ring off, run to Captain Picard, and tell him everything. There was probably a simple enough explanation.

But 'probably' wasn't good enough. Could he really trust Captain Picard? He had wanted them to stay in Lothlorien. And Commander Riker? Had something happened to him? He had died, after all. Maybe he wasn't quite himself.

Data. Data he could be sure of. Maybe. But how could he talk to Data without anyone else around? Any moment now, he would be riding off with Riker. Alone.

Wesley slipped the Ring off. It was his responsibility. The Quest was his to finish. He had to make sure. Hesitantly, he stepped through the door. "What do you want, Q?"

Q smiled. "First, to return this. I believe you lost it to my Uruk-Hai." He held out Sting, which Wesley took without question and fastened around his waist. Q snapped his fingers, and Wesley's mithril coat appeared beneath his clothes. "You may need that, as well. Second, I wish to offer you a word of caution, Frodo Baggins. Gandalf and Aragorn convinced me to help them by telling me that they did, indeed, have a plan to destroy the Ring. But they didn't look too happy about it."

"Of course not. It's dangerous."

"That's what I assumed, as well," Q agreed. "I was rather surprised by Aragorn's request."

That caught Wesley off-guard. "You mean _you_ don't know what they're planning?"

Q shook his head. "Of course not. I like surprises. And this one … I have a feeling it'll be a big one. But perhaps not a pleasant one for all involved, if Aragorn has his way."

Wesley tucked the Ring back in his pocket. "Why are you telling me this?"

"So that you will understand why I am giving you these." He held out a small bottle and a dagger. "I believe in fairness, Frodo, and I'd like to even the odds."

Wesley's hands trembled as he reached for the dagger and placed it inside his cloak. Then he took the bottle. "The same as you gave Commander Riker?"

Q nodded. "Identical. Enough to leave a man unconscious for a few hours, be he a man, a Dwarf, or a Halfling. Elves might not be as vulnerable, but, somehow, I doubt they'll be your problem."

Wesley shook his head. "Just as a precaution. In case … well, the Ring does strange things to people. He might try to…" But that was absurd. Why would he take the Ring? If he thought he was best qualified to finish the Quest alone, why not just ask for the Ring? The Captain could have ordered Wesley to give It to him. And, once they were alone, Riker could do the same. Certainly he knew that.

Q smiled. "Boromir was right to fear the Ring's power, Frodo. He entrusted the Ring to _you_ because _you_, Frodo Baggins, were meant to have it. This task was appointed to _you_. The Ring was given to _you _for a reason."

"Are you trying to tell me that, if anyone else drops the Ring in the fire, it won't work?"

"Not at all. What I'm saying, Frodo, isn't that no one else _can_ drop the Ring in the fire. What I'm saying is that no one else _will_. Whether you believe that is, of course, your choice, but you have been warned."

Wesley hid the bottle of poison inside his cloak, then ran from the room. He didn't want to believe it. He wanted to take the Ring and insist that Riker take It and get it over with. But something held him back. Brooke had given the Ring back to him. She had been afraid of what it might do to her. And she had known Its power better than Riker. What if he didn't realize what It could do?

No. No, he had to keep It. Riker would understand that.

He found the others by the horses. The Captain, Commander Riker, Data, and Faramir. Still questioning whether or not he should, Wesley approached Picard. "Gandalf? Can I talk to you? Alone?"

Picard nodded, acknowledging Wesley's attempt to sound informal enough to not make Faramir suspect anything. "Of course, Frodo. Come with me." As soon as they were out of earshot, Picard stopped. "What's on your mind, Wesley?"

"Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

"Granted."

"It's the plan, Sir. It seems a little too easy. We ride for a few days, cross a river, walk a little, stumble on a secret entrance into Mordor, walk across Mordor, climb a mountain, and drop the Ring in. Is it really that simple?"

Picard considered for a moment. "When you put it that way, yes, it does sound much simpler. But it's never that simple, Wesley. I'm sure there will be obstacles. But we can't always see them in advance. That's why Commander Riker is going with you. He has the best chance of recognizing danger and finding the best way around it. You're in good hands, Wesley."

Wesley nodded, trying to look convinced. "I guess I am … Sir."

Picard placed a hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Then I'll see you back on the _Enterprise, _Ensign Crusher."

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

><p>Faramir handed a folded piece of paper to Riker. "Give this to the soldiers stationed at Cair Andros, and they will give you safe passage across the Anduin. If they require further proof, deliver this to them." He held out the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. "Ask them to deliver it to my father. He deserves to know that Boromir will not be returning with me," he added gravely. "I am afraid that is the only help I can give you, though my heart bids me ask to remain by your side."<p>

Riker tucked the letter and the horn inside his sack. "Nay, Faramir. Your place is with our people. Here we must part. But though our paths both turn towards peril and darkness, I hope that we may see each other again." A vain hope. If the Ring was destroyed, he would return to the _Enterprise_. But Riker had grown fond of Faramir, fictional character though he was, and wanted to spare him the trouble of a permanent-sounding farewell.

Faramir simply nodded as Riker mounted. "I hope so, as well, my lord. And, though one or both of us may perish, I may still hope for it. For we are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Riker smiled as Picard and Wesley returned. Riker turned to Data as Wesley mounted his horse. "Farewell, my friend. When you see Sam, tell him I'll take good care of Frodo. He needn't worry." He hoped his words would make their way to Dr. Crusher. Last of all, he turned to Picard.

Silence. Neither could say what he wanted to. But Riker could read the reluctance in Picard's eyes. His desire to take back his order. To find another way. But there was none.

"Time is short," Picard said at last. "Go, and may the stars shine upon your faces."

Picard had remembered that from Rivendell. Riker forced a smile. "Farewell, my friend." He looked from Picard to Data to Faramir. "Namarië," he added quietly, then turned what he hoped was a confident smile in Picard's direction.

And, before anyone could say anything less cheerful, Riker rode off, with Wesley close behind him.

* * *

><p>From atop the Tower of Orthanc, Q watched them leave. Almost immediately, Picard, Data, and Faramir began to prepare for their own departure. Whatever Riker's plan was, both he and Picard would play vital roles.<p>

What, exactly, that plan might be, Q didn't know, nor did he want to. He could have eavesdropped, of course, but that would have spoiled the fun. He had a few guesses, but was thoroughly enjoying the fact that they were no more than that – guesses.

Riker had, indeed, surprised him. The simplest explanation for his request was that he had already decided, despite whatever he had told Picard, that he was the best-equipped to finish the Quest and should do so alone, that anyone else would only end up slowing him down. Perhaps he planned to drug Wesley and leave him somewhere relatively safe at the earliest opportunity. Would Wesley reach the same conclusion and decide to continue on alone? Who would act first?

Riker, probably, Q reasoned. Wesley would be hesitant to attack a superior officer. And he would have to wait. Riker knew where they were going. Then again, Riker would have to wait, too, unless he planned on leaving Wesley in the middle of the wilderness. Which, in the end, might be safer.

Or perhaps Riker did not intend to attack Wesley at all. Was he just trying to throw Q off? Why? Was it a precaution? But, if he was so worried about an attack, why ask for poison that would do nothing but leave a man unconscious for a few hours? Why not ask for something lethal?

The only reason for that would be if he wanted to keep his attacker alive. Gollum, maybe? But then why not ask for rope? And, in any case, why ask for a dagger? He already had an excellent sword.

Q saw the others gathering at the steps of Orthanc. This would be good. He snapped his fingers, appearing at the top of the stairs. "So you have come to say farewell, then?"

Faramir stepped forward, clearly mastering a certain amount of doubt about Saruman's intentions. "We came to offer you a choice, Saruman. You may remain here, under the guard of the Ents, or you may ride with us and prove your good faith."

Q smiled. Faramir didn't trust him – not for a second. But, at the same time, the young captain of Gondor realized how badly they needed help, and how much of an asset Q – even restricted by Saruman's own limitations – could be.

For a moment, he was tempted. It would be fun to ride with them, to match wits with Picard, to play on Faramir's suspicions. But then he thought of something even better. Even more fun. Something Brooke would have certainly found amusing, as well, he realized with a smile.

"Nay, Faramir," he answered. "I shall remain here. But go knowing that I wish you success in your endeavors."

Faramir shook his head. "Yours are the words of a coward, Saruman. Here, you are safe, regardless of how this storm ends. You have helped us, after a fashion, and so we must spare you. But you will not openly betray your master. You can still claim that you were overrun, your prisoners taken by force. Sauron will think you weak, perhaps not even a threat, certainly not worthy of his attention. You have guaranteed your own survival, even at the cost of ours. Come, my friends. There is no reason to linger here."

Before Data turned to follow the other two, Q thought he saw the faintest hint of admiration in the android's eye. Faramir had been able to make complete sense of what would have been Saruman's motives. Q smiled to himself as the trio rode away. "Farewell," he grinned. "We shall meet again."


	27. Where the Long Grass Grows

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, it's still not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Seven<br>****Where the Long Grass Grows**

Picard, Data, and Faramir rode through what was left of the night and all through the day, stopping only briefly for two short meals. At dusk, they stopped for a few hours. Faramir and Picard slept, and Data kept watch. Then they continued on through the night. At dawn, they reached what Picard knew had once been Edoras.

An army was gathering – that much was clear. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men and horses had gathered among the ruins. Eomer and O' Brien rode out to meet them. "Welcome, Gandalf," O' Brien greeted them without missing a beat. "Pippin, it is good to see that you survived your errand. Welcome back, Faramir." O' Brien's mind was racing. Where was Riker? Faramir didn't appear concerned; that was a good sign. Had he simply stayed a little longer? Why? And had they found Wesley? But he knew he should leave the questions to Eomer.

Fortunately, Eomer was just as curious, if a little tactless. "Why has Aragorn not returned with you?"

The question was directed at Faramir, but Faramir turned to Picard. "He has his own task ahead of him," Picard answered, trying a little too hard, O' Brien thought, to sound wizardly. "But I will not say more here. Is there some place where we may speak privately?"

"Hardly. What you see here is what remains of Edoras. This, though, you may surely say: What of Saruman?"

"He has been defeated. Isengard is no longer a threat. Saruman himself is alive, but a prisoner at Orthanc, under guard of the Ents. He will cause no further harm."

Eomer smiled, as if this news were too good to be true. At last, he turned back to Faramir. "Then, as soon as may be, Faramir, our army rides for Minas Tirith, to the aid of your people. Some are still arriving, but time is pressing, I fear."

"More than you realize," Faramir agreed, his eyes on Picard, deferring once more to the wizard's judgment of what should and should not be said.

"We will speak later, Eomer," Picard replied. "For now, though, you should know this: Gondor's need is pressing. Regardless of the number, whatever men you can find must ride for Gondor no later than tomorrow morning."

O' Brien watched for a moment as the tension lingered. This was it. Were they going to let Picard give the orders? Faramir looked willing enough, with his king gone, to simply follow Gandalf's lead. But Eomer?

After a moment, Eomer nodded once. "Very well. On the morrow, we ride."

That was the end of the discussion, O' Brien knew, and he followed Eomer as the king rode off to deliver the news to the captains. Eomer was going along with the plan. But, eventually, O' Brien knew, he would need an explanation.

He could only hope that Picard did, indeed, have one.

* * *

><p>It was near dusk before O' Brien saw the Captain again. Everyone had gathered to bury the dead. Despite the overwhelming number of people killed, there were relatively few bodies remaining; most had burned in the fires, leaving little more than bones. A large grave had been dug and the bodies laid reverently inside. Only two were kept apart to be laid separately in a place of special honor: Theoden and Brooke.<p>

Few words were spoken during Theoden's burial, but the people wept openly for their king. Standing silently behind Eomer and Eowyn, O' Brien, too, wept, and made no effort to conceal his grief. If any of the crew asked later, he could claim he was trying to blend in. But the truth was that he would miss Theoden, though he had truly only known him for a very short time.

Last of all, Faramir stepped forward, alone, to bury his brother's body. O' Brien hesitated only a moment before joining him. By rights, it was Riker's place, as the only other Gondorian. But Riker was gone. And O' Brien wasn't about to let anyone – fictional or not – bury his brother alone.

Together, they lowered Brooke's body into the ground. Fresh tears fell from O' Brien's eyes as he picked up a shovel. Together, shovel after shovel, he and Faramir filled the grave. At last, they finished, and Faramir, too overcome by grief even to speak, turned silently towards the setting sun. O' Brien did likewise, gazing out into the west.

After a moment of silence in this manner, the crowd began to leave. At last, only Faramir, Eomer, O' Brien, and Picard remained.

It was Faramir who finally broke the silence. "Farewell, Boromir," he said softly, then turned to the others. "Thank you for remaining. But, though my heart yearns to remain here, I know my brother would not want us to linger on his account – not when there is work to be done. There will be a time to grieve, but it is not now." He turned to Picard. "Now that we are alone, Mithrandir, perhaps we can answer a few of Eomer's questions."

Picard looked around. They were certainly alone, and not likely to be disturbed. "Very well," he agreed. He turned to Eomer, motioning to O' Brien. "Can this man be trusted?"

"Absolutely," Eomer nodded.

Picard turned to O' Brien. "What is your name?"

"Hama," O' Brien answered. "I'm—"

But before the words 'door warden' could pass his lips, Eomer interrupted. "Hama is my personal advisor and a close friend. He has more than proven himself in my service. I would trust him with my soldiers, my country, and my very life."

Picard nodded. "That is sufficient. You will need men such as him, Eomer. Men whom you can trust, who will follow you despite the dangers."

"You speak in riddles, as always," Eomer observed. "But time is short, Gandalf. Will you not speak plainly?"

"Very well. Once we arrive in Gondor, things are going to happen very quickly. You asked where Aragorn was. He and a young Hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins are on their way to Mordor even as we speak. They are going there to destroy the One Ring. If they are successful, Sauron will be defeated. If they fail, none will be able to stand against him. Their success depends upon us. Their destination is Mount Doom, in the heart of Mordor. If they are to arrive unnoticed, Sauron's attention must be elsewhere. As they are completing their journey, a host of soldiers from both Gondor and Rohan must arrive at the Black Gate."

Eomer appeared ready to laugh, but then realized Picard was serious. "And why would Sauron suddenly find us so interesting?"

"Because he will believe that _we_ have the Ring. The One Ring, in the hands of a force led by the King of Rohan, the Steward of Gondor, and Gandalf the White – the thought of that might be enough to attract his attention long enough for Aragorn and Frodo to accomplish their task."

"And get us killed," Eomer observed.

"That is a possibility," Picard conceded. "Which is why the force should be as small as would still be convincing. We should not risk lives needlessly. But you, Eomer, and you, Faramir, and I are absolutely necessary. Will you follow me?"

Eomer studied Picard. "You presume much, Gandalf. I owe you nothing. Rohan owes you nothing. Always you come and go at will, minding the affairs of others. I will not ask my men to sacrifice themselves at your word."

O' Brien opened his mouth to object, but Eomer held up a hand and turned to Faramir. "To Gondor, however, we owe much as of late. Your brother, when he arrived, healed King Theoden, allowing us to gather our forces and make our stand. Boromir had only one request of me: that I aid his companions in any way I could. He believed that the survival of all of Middle-Earth rested on the success or failure of their quest, the nature of which is finally clear.

"But our debt is not to him alone. You and Aragorn saved us from destruction, my friend. Our debt is both to the King of Gondor and to the House of the Stewards. I will not follow Gandalf blindly as some might. But, if you ask it of me, Faramir, son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor, I will ride with _you_. I will fight for _you_. I will follow _you_."

Faramir met the king's gaze. "Then I do ask it, King Eomer, for the sake of both our lands – indeed, for the sake of all of Middle-Earth. For the sake of all free peoples, and for all that is good in this world, I ask you to ride with me."

"Then ride we shall, my friend."

O' Brien caught Picard's gaze for a moment. Eomer was convinced. The hard part was over.

Now all they had to do was lead a suicide mission to the Black Gate.

"Just one more thing," Eomer said doubtfully. "A king, a steward, and a wizard will certainly be a sight to see at his gates, but why would Sauron assume that we have the Ring?"

O' Brien watched as Picard tried to come up with a vague, wizard-ish answer, but, before he had the chance, Geordi came running. "Gandalf! Gandalf, come quickly! It's Pippin!"

They all ran after Geordi, but O' Brien was soon left behind. His limp was barely noticeable now when he was walking, but running was still out of the question. At last, he caught up and saw that the others were all gathered around where Data lay – apparently deactivated – amid a pile of ruins. His hands were clasped around a black object. A ball, O' Brien realized. Round. Smooth. Rather ordinary-looking. But, obviously, the sphere was anything but ordinary.

Picard bent down to try to remove the ball from Data's hands, but, the moment he touched it, it blazed bright red, and Picard pulled away. Instead, he threw his cloak over the ball and yanked as hard as he could. But Data's grip held. Picard took hold of Data's shoulders and shook him. "Pippin! Pippin, wake up!"

Picard's touch seemed to revive Data, and he immediately released the ball. "Gandalf?" Data appeared quite dazed, if that were possible for an android. "This sphere … is an intriguing object."

"I'm sure it is," Picard agreed. "Pippin, I need you to tell me exactly what you saw."

"I saw a tall, dark tower. I saw an eye – a red eye – engulfed by flame. It … spoke to me, though not with words, precisely. It wanted to know who I was. I attempted to release the sphere, but I could not. It was a fascinating sensation, as if I had no control over my own actions. The fire grew brighter, and the … curiosity of the other being grew more intense. That is all I remember."

"Did you tell him anything?"

"'Him'?"

"Pippin, the being you encountered was Sauron. This is extremely important. What did you tell him?"

"I said nothing. However, since I could see him, Gandalf, it would be reasonable to assume that he could also see me, and possibly my surroundings, as well."

"So he knew he was speaking to a Hobbit."

"That would be a reasonable deduction."

Picard nodded. "Thank you, Pippin. I believe I will hold onto this for a while."

"Of course. I do not understand, Sir. I was drawn to look at it, and I do not know why. The curiosity was … overwhelming. It will not happen again, Sir."

"There is no need to apologize, Pippin," Picard assured him. "That's why I gave it to you. I knew you would be curious. In fact, I was counting on it. Sauron knows that a Halfling has the Ring. Now he will assume that _you_ are that Halfling, Pippin, and will be less inclined to search elsewhere. He will be watching you, Pippin, and all who travel with you – especially if those companions include a wizard, a king, and a steward. He will be watching _us_, Pippin. Well done."

Convinced that Gandalf now had the situation under control, nearly everyone went about their own business. O' Brien was about to leave, as well, when Picard called him back. "Hama, may I speak with you?"

"Of course, Gandalf." He followed Picard away from the crowd. "What can I do for you?"

"You can tell me what you know about Eomer. Was he convinced? Will he follow us? Can he be trusted?"

"Yes to all three, Sir. Yes, he can be trusted. He's not a man of false pretenses, Captain. As for following us, he's already made it quite clear that he's not doing it on your account. But, to be frank, I don't think it really matters _why_ he goes with us, so long as he's there. And he's true to his word, Sir. He told Faramir he would help Gondor, so that's what he's going to do. As long as we have Faramir on our side…"

"We have Faramir," Picard assured him. "Brooke saw to that when she acknowledged Riker as her king. Riker is certain of Faramir's loyalty."

"Then, yes, Eomer will ride with us. As for being convinced … he was worried that we wouldn't be enough of a distraction. But the incident with the black ball … thing … convinced him – and everyone else, I might add. They think you know what you're doing."

Picard let that hang in the air for a moment. "All right, Mr. O' Brien," he said at last. "Let's have it."

"I didn't mean to be rude, Sir."

"But you don't think I know what I'm doing."

"Not exactly. I think you have a plan. And, as far as suicidal diversion plans go, it's not bad. But I don't think you've thought of everything. You seemed just as surprised as everyone else to find that Data had been playing with that ball."

"Palantir."

"Palantir, then. Did you know he was going to look at it?"

"No. Riker told me to give it to him. I can only assume he knew what Data would do."

"This is Riker's plan we're following, isn't it."

"Yes."

"And you don't like it. You think it's far too dangerous for everyone. Riker and Wesley off to Mordor alone. The rest of us riding off on a suicide mission to try to distract Sauron. And the success of that mission lying with Faramir and Eomer, rather than your own men. I don't think you like the plan at all, but there was no other choice."

"Perhaps I should ask if Counselor Troi is in need of an assistant. No, I don't like the plan, but it is the only one we have, and it has already been set in motion. Riker and Wesley are gone. Faramir has orders from his king and will ride with or without us, and Eomer will follow him. It's out of our hands, Mr. O' Brien."

"That it is, Sir," O' Brien agreed. "So maybe the best thing for us all to do would be to get a good night's rest and stop worrying about it."

Picard smiled. "That, Mr. O' Brien, is quite possibly the best suggestion I have heard in a long time."

* * *

><p>Riker and Wesley woke with the sun after riding well into the night. "The others will be leaving Edoras this morning," Riker commented over a light breakfast. Wesley had been silent during most of the trip, and it was beginning to worry Riker. Once again, his attempt to strike up a conversation was getting no response. "Wesley, are you all right?"<p>

"I'm just worried about them, Sir."

Wesley was lying – that much was obvious – but Riker decided to go along with it. "They'll be all right, Wesley. They have an entire army with them."

"Yes, Sir, but the only reason they have an entire army with them is because they're going to war. And, no offense, Sir, but, since we've gotten here, we don't exactly have a spotless fighting record. Moria was a disaster, Sir, and, at Amon Hen, three of us got ourselves captured. The only reason we defeated Saruman was because of the Ents, and, at Edoras, you had your dead soldiers. But the Ents aren't going with them to Gondor, and you told me that the dead army is gone, so what's to stop them all from getting themselves killed this time?"

Riker tucked the rest of the food into his sack. "Well, that's up to us, Wesley. Timing is going to be everything. They aren't going to win the battle, not by strength of arms. They can't. But, once we destroy the Ring, it doesn't matter. So we just have to do that_ before_ they get themselves killed."

Wesley nodded as they mounted their horses, but Riker could tell that his explanation hadn't really helped. Wesley was right, of course. So many things could go wrong. But those were things that were out of their control. Right now, all they had to do was make it to Cair Andros alive. Then they could worry about the rest of the journey.


	28. In Sunlight or in Shade

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Eight<br>****In Sunlight or in Shade**

Riker and Wesley rode all through the day, stopping only briefly for lunch and eating a late supper when they finally stopped for the night. Each took a turn keeping watch while the other slept, but Wesley was finding it harder and harder to sleep. Soon, they would reach Gondor, and Riker could poison him, leave him in relative safety, take the Ring, and continue the Quest.

Wesley was just as uneasy keeping watch. They were so close. For days, their path had been, more or less, a straight line. He could probably find his way alone. The safest thing would probably be to poison Riker and make a run for it. But what if he got lost? What if Riker caught him? How would he explain what he had done? And he had no proof of Riker's plan – only suspicion. But, by the time he got his proof, it could be too late.

Wesley fiddled nervously with the Ring. He only took It out while Riker was asleep. Not because he didn't want Riker to catch him – there was no harm, after all, in just looking at It – but who know what It might do to Riker? Who knew what madness It might cause?

Wesley woke Riker at dawn, and the two ate a short breakfast. "We should reach Cair Andros by nightfall," Riker commented. "While we're there, it would be best not to use our characters' real names. If we're asked, I'm Strider, and you're Wesley Underhill. Let me answer the questions, and we'll be fine. And remember, Faramir sent us. These are our allies. Be polite, but not overly friendly."

Wesley nodded absently. Riker was uneasy about something. But neither said anything further as they rode off again towards the east. Once again, they stopped for lunch and then rode on. As they rode, the prairie became dotted by an odd tree or bush. Slowly, the trees grew more abundant, though still not enough to be properly called a forest. As the sunlight began to dim behind them, however, the woods grew denser, blocking the light. Still, there was no sign of a river. Riker pulled his horse to a halt, and Wesley followed suit. "C'mon, c'mon," Riker whispered. "Find us."

"Couldn't we try calling for them?" Wesley suggested.

"I don't want to risk that unless we have to," Riker shook his head. "Gondor is under attack, Wesley. We'd be as likely to attract Orcs as Gondorian soldiers. No, we can wait a while. They'll find us. They may even be watching us now."

"And after they find us?"

"You know the plan, Wesley. They give us passage across the river, and we continue on."

"Really?" The darkness was making Wesley nervous. Riker could easily attack him, leave him for the soldiers to find. "Is that really the plan?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that your plan is too easy. Too simple. We cross the river. Find your secret entrance. Cross Mordor, and—"

"Quieter, Wesley," Riker cautioned. "Not here."

"Oh, yes, 'Strider,' we need to be quiet. Of course. We wouldn't want anyone to hear our simple, quite obvious plan. But I have to wonder, Strider: If it's really going to be that easy, why carry a dagger and a bottle of poison?"

"What do you mean?" Even in the dark, Riker had a poker face. His voice was calm, steady. No hint of surprise that his secret had been discovered.

"I overheard you," Wesley accused. "You asked for enough poison to leave a man unconscious for several hours. Enough time for you to take It, leave me somewhere safe, and continue on alone. And what better time than now? So if you're going to do it – do it!"

There was a moment of silence. "Is that what you thought?" Riker asked at last. "That's what's been troubling you. You thought that I … oh, Wesley. I wouldn't harm you. Here." He removed the bottle of poison and the dagger from his cloak and held them out to Wesley. "You can hold onto them, until we need them. That's all the guarantee I can offer. I wouldn't take It, Wesley."

"Not even if It lay by the highway?"

"What?"

"Something Br – Boromir told me. He said that he wouldn't take It if It lay by the highway. Not even if—"

"—if Minas Tirith lay in ruins, and he alone could save her, using the weapon of the Enemy for her good and his glory," Riker finished, quietly, as if surprised by his own words. "He was right, Wesley. This Fellowship wasn't formed to take over for you if the job became too hard or the road too long. We're here to help you, to protect you with our very lives, and, if need be, with our deaths. This is your task, and I would never presume to take it as my own."

Wesley blinked. For a moment, Riker hadn't sounded at all like the Commander Riker he knew. He couldn't see, but he could imagine the same light in Riker's eyes that Brooke had had whenever she had spoken of Gondor. Riker's voice rang with the same devotion.

Wesley took the bottle and dagger and placed them in his cloak. "All right, then. Now what?"

Riker removed a small, silver horn from his belt. "Now we see if this will bring our friends out of hiding." He blew one long, clear blast.

Immediately, they were surrounded. Men stepped out from behind trees as if out of thin air. But no weapons were drawn, and Riker held up his hands. "I wish to speak to your captain."

One of the men stepped forward. "I am Damrod. These men are under my command. What are your names, and what is your purpose in Gondor? You are from far away, by the sound of your voices. What errand brings you so far from home?"

"I am Strider, a Ranger from the North. This is Wesley Underhill of the Shire. We were sent by Faramir, son of Denethor, your Steward." He handed Damrod a folded piece of paper. "We seek passage across the Anduin."

Damrod lit a torch and read the letter. "Then you have missed your mark, I fear. Cair Andros is a half-day's journey north of here. But that is just as well. Even as we speak, our forces there are under attack; we received word two hours ago. But we have a camp a few miles south along the river. Stay with us for the night. In the morning, we will give you passage, and you may be on your way."

Riker dismounted, and Wesley did the same. "Thank you, my friend."

Wesley stared as Damrod led them through the forest. Whatever Faramir had written, it had been convincing. For a moment, Wesley was reminded of the _Enterprise_. These men showed the same obedience as Starfleet officers. They had been told to give two travelers passage across a river, so that was exactly what they were going to do. Wesley smiled. Finally, something in Middle-Earth that made sense.

"What news of Faramir, then?" Damrod asked as they walked. "He has been long away, and many of the men have begun to fear him lost, and with him Boromir. But, surely, since he wrote this, all is not lost."

"No, not all," Riker agreed. "I fear I bring tidings of both sorrow and hope." He reached once more into his cloak, this time drawing out the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. "Faramir bade me deliver this to you. Boromir fell defending Edoras against Saruman's armies. But Saruman has been defeated, and, even now, Faramir is leading a force from Rohan, along with Eomer, their king, and Gandalf. They should reach Minas Tirith the day after tomorrow."

Damrod studied the horn sadly. Any doubts he may have had were now clearly gone. "Boromir will be sorely missed, and most of all by his father. But Faramir's return will, indeed, bring hope, and it is long since we had any hope."

There was a moment of silence, but then Riker spoke, slowly, in a low, quite voice not quite his own. "Perhaps that is because, in giving hope to others, you have kept none for yourselves. Gondor lies in the very shadow of the Enemy, yet now all free peoples of Middle-Earth look to her for hope. For if Gondor falls, what land can withstand the strength of Mordor? But Gondor shall not fall."

Riker didn't know, exactly, where the words had come from. Ever since awakening adrift on the Anduin, he had found it increasingly easy – natural, almost – to play his role of Aragorn. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped fighting it. He had drawn on Aragorn's character to summon the Dead, to release Brooke form Saruman's spell, and to find the words he had needed to reassure Wesley. And soon, he knew, he would need that strength, that resolve, once more.

In any case, the words had been the right ones. Damrod seemed satisfied, and led them on in silence for about half an hour. At last, they reached the soldiers' makeshift camp – a large cave beside the riverbank, and, near it, a small clearing, at the center of which stood a small fire. A few dozen men stood or sat or lay in the clearing, and more, Riker guessed, were in the cave. He could see several sentries keeping watch. They were armed with swords and bows but not heavily armored. These were scouts, and a hundred at most, not the thousands that would be needed to withstand an all-out attack from Mordor. They were there to gather information, not fortify the position.

After a late supper, Damrod advised Riker and Wesley to rest while they could do so in relative safety. Wesley quickly took him up on the offer, and was soon sleeping soundly, his concerns about Riker finally eased. Riker watched the boy silently, envying his peace of mind. It was enough for Wesley to trust that Riker knew what he was doing. At least for the moment, exhausted as he was, it was enough to let him sleep.

One by one, most of the men went to sleep, as well, except for the sentries. Still, Riker sat awake, staring at the fire. He picked up a twig absently and tossed it into the flames. The fire provided some light but little heat. Riker drew his cloak tighter.

"It's not going to be fun, is it?"

Riker looked up, startled. Q. But no one else had reacted. In fact, they all seemed frozen. "Don't worry," Q assured him. "They'll return to their senses once I'm done with you. We need to talk."

Riker glanced once over Q's new costume. Saruman's robes were gone, replaced by deep black ones, lined with some sort of fur. His hair was now grey instead of white, his beard and staff gone. Q reached down into Damrod's sack and removed the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. "I think I'll take this."

Riker nodded. "I thought you might. You just couldn't resist – one last chance to be part of the action." He smiled. "I think Brooke would approve of your selection."

Q sat down beside Riker. "I'd like to think so. But you never answered my question, Aragorn. You're not looking forward to this. You know what awaits you in Cirith Ungol."

Riker tossed another twig into the fire. "I'm not worried about Shelob, Q."

"Oh, come now, Aragorn. We both know I wasn't speaking of spiders. There's a choice waiting before you. And it's not a pleasant one."

"Do you know what I'm planning? Were you listening to us?"

"No, but I have a guess."

So he was fishing. Curious. No point in lying, but no reason to tell him everything, either. "It's a choice that's already been made. I have my orders. It was my idea. My plan."

"But it's not too late to back out. There are always other options."

"Like bringing the Ring to you? To defend Gondor? I think not."

Q shrugged. "You would have been disappointed if I hadn't tried. But are you certain that this is the only choice?"

Riker tossed another twig into the flames that waited to consume it. "Unfortunately, yes, I am. But thank you, Q."

"For what?"

"For trying to persuade me otherwise. Because that means that there's a chance this will actually work."

"Not without bloodshed, Aragorn."

"I know. It can't be helped. That's what war is, Q – among us mortals, at least. Bloodshed. Loss. Sacrifice. Sometimes too much sacrifice, too high a price."

"Paid by the wrong people," Q ventured.

Riker's eyes flashed. "And who are the right people, Q? Who deserves to pay the price? And who decides?"

Q rose, unfazed. "Apparently, Gandalf and Aragorn decide. This has been most enlightening. Farewell … and good luck." With a snap of his fingers, he vanished.

Riker watched as the men returned to life, a few stirring in their sleep, but most still unmoving, peaceful. Beside him, Wesley showed no sign; he remained blissfully unaware of the entire conversation. Riker smiled wryly, grateful Q had chosen not to include Wesley in their little chat. It would have raised questions – questions he wasn't ready to answer. Not yet.

But soon. A few days, and they would reach Cirith Ungol. Then he would have to tell Wesley. Then there would be no turning back.

* * *

><p>It was still dark when Damrod woke them. "Yes, it is morning," he assured them. "The days have been growing darker, but we have seen nothing like this, even here in the shadow of Mordor. I fear the storm is finally upon us. You must go while you still may. Orcs have been sighted moving southward along the Anduin in great numbers. They will be here by midday."<p>

Riker quickly got to his feet, and Wesley followed. "And you?" Riker asked. "What of your men?"

"We will make for Osgiliath as quickly as we are able. We will withstand the enemy there as long as possible, but the city will not hold forever. I can only hope that what you say is true, and forces from Rohan are on their way."

"They are. They will not desert us."

If Damrod thought Riker's use of 'us' strange, he said nothing. Instead, he motioned towards the river. "Two of my men are waiting to escort you across. Farewell, my friends. May we meet again in happier times."

Riker bowed. "May we all live to see those times. Farewell, Damrod."

Perched high in the branches of a tree, Q watched as Riker and Wesley crossed the Anduin and began their journey eastward on foot.

That afternoon, still a half-day's journey from Osgiliath, Damrod's small company of scouts was overtaken by the Orcs. There were no survivors.


	29. The White City

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own any of it. But I am having soooo much fun with it.

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><p><strong>Chapter Twenty-Nine<br>****The White City**

"How can you sleep?"

O' Brien sighed and opened his eyes, holding back a remark about how he had done so just splendidly until a few seconds ago. It had been sometime in the late afternoon when they had stopped, and it was now fully dark. Soon, he knew, they would press on through the night. Eomer was anxious, and, though he would never show it, O' Brien knew Faramir must be, as well. But no one in their company, it seemed, was more anxious than the young woman who had woken him.

"It's really quite simple, my lady," he responded in as even a tone as he could manage upon just being awoken. "I figure I'm more alert – and of more use to everyone – if I've had my sleep, no matter how little. Don't get me wrong; I'm as worried as anyone else about what's coming. But, whatever it is, I'd rather face it with as clear a head as possible."

Eowyn nodded, but O' Brien could tell she didn't really understand. Slowly, he got to his feet. His leg was healing, but he was still grateful for a horse to ride. The others were preparing to ride, as well. Captain Picard had already mounted his horse, a beautiful, white steed who had taken an immediate liking to him. For his part, Picard seemed to treat the horses of Middle-Earth as real more readily than the humans. More than once, as they had been riding, O' Brien had glanced over to see Picard stroking Shadowfax's mane or whispering some quiet encouragement to the horse. Now, in the dark, with a pale light shining from his staff, the Captain almost looked like a powerful wizard.

Picard continued to light the way as they rode onward into the night. The past three days had become a blur of riding across the countryside. Though he tried not to dwell on it, Picard couldn't shake the familiarity of it. He had already sent an away team ahead into deadly enemy territory. Now they were rushing to the aid of a trusted ally, as quickly as their warp engines – or, in this case, horses – would allow. Their plan was risky. Possibly life-threatening. But the options had been carefully weighed, all possibilities considered, and the decisions made.

Hours passed, and still they rode on. At last, a dark shape came into view in the distance, but it was still too dark, and the towering figure too distant, to make out any more than that.

Faramir brought his horse up alongside Picard's. "Something is amiss, Mithrandir. It should be dawn by now."

Picard didn't bother asking if Faramir was certain. Three days of observing the young man's behavior had told Picard that Faramir rarely spoke without thinking. If he said that it was past dawn, the thought had probably occurred to him a while ago, and, now that their destination was in sight, there was sufficient reason to voice his concern.

Picard grasped his staff a little tighter, and light burst from the tip like lightning, lingering long enough to reveal that the plain in front of them was empty. No Orcs. No soldiers. Nothing. Picard glanced over at Faramir, who nodded, satisfied. They weren't walking into an ambush. But, still, the dark emptiness was unnerving. Nevertheless, they had no choice but to continue onwards.

So they did. At last, torches came into view. As they drew closer to the large, looming figure that Picard could only guess was Minas Tirith, the torches, too, drew nearer. Another flash from Picard's staff showed a dozen or so men on horses riding towards them. Picard called the company to a halt, then motioned to Faramir, Eomer, Data, and O' Brien. They rode on ahead, swords drawn, Picard's staff glowing brighter.

"My lord Faramir!" came a call as the horses drew nearer. One of them broke away from the group, racing ahead with what Picard realized was reckless delight. "Faramir! We had heard rumors, but I had scarcely dared to hope! My lord, our need could not be greater. But now perhaps not all is lost. Faramir, you must speak to your father. Perhaps you can stop this madness!"

Faramir sheathed his sword and came alongside the rider, who, Picard could now see, was not only hysterical with relief and joy, but also badly wounded and barely able to keep his balance. Faramir dismounted and helped him from his saddle. All the while, the soldier kept rambling, protesting, insisting that Faramir must hurry, that the city's need was urgent.

Faramir's voice was calm as he spoke. Controlled. Picard could barely hear the panic underneath the young captain's forced composure. "Beregond, I need you to tell me: What happened?"

The calmness in his captain's voice sobered Beregond enough to allow him to form a coherent report of what had happened. "The night before last, Orcs took Cair Andros. Lord Denethor … he ordered them all to return. Everyone. Our outposts along the River. Osgiliath. All abandoned. He told us to go home. Even the tower guard. All dismissed. He says there is no hope, and that it is better to die sooner rather than late. Some of us … we disobeyed. We rode to Osgiliath. We were … badly outnumbered. We had no choice but to retreat. Then we saw the light … and we found you. Faramir, you must do something. Your father's grief has turned to madness. To see you alive … I still cannot…"

He reached out to Faramir, who clasped his hand. "I am alive. And I will speak to my father." He called to the other riders, and two came forward. "Ambron, Maldair, take Beregond to the Houses of Healing." He mounted his horse and turned to Picard. "Will you come with me?"

It was almost a plea, as if he thought, somehow, that Picard would be able to do something he could not. Picard nodded, then turned to Data and Eomer. "Join whatever remains of their army and form a defense. The enemy will strike while they are still vulnerable." Without another word, he rode off after Faramir.

The gates to the city had been left open – by design, Picard guessed, not by accident. Up they rode, to the seventh and highest level, and there they dismounted. Picard followed Faramir through several halls and into a large room, the most well-lit he had seen yet in the city. There was a large throne at the other end, but this was empty. Beside it, much lower, was another seat.

There sat a man, hunched over, head bowed, as if weary or in pain. His long, grey hair hung down in tangles across the shoulders of his dark robe. He held something in his hands, but, in the dim light, Picard could make out no more.

Faramir bowed as he approached. "Father, I have returned, and have brought with me an army from Rohan. They have come to defend Gondor. All is not lost. Father, you must give the order for the men to return to arms. It is not too late."

Nothing. No response. The man might as well have been asleep, for all Picard could tell. Faramir might have gone on for a while longer, but Picard took a step forward. "Lord Denethor, there is an army massing at your doorstep. There is another waiting to help you. We have come a long way, and we have not ridden for three days to protect a city that will not defend itself!"

At last, the figure spoke, in a voice both familiar and foreign, in a tone Picard had never heard him use, and hoped never to hear again. "Then perhaps you have come to explain this." Q lifted his hands, revealing the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor. "Perhaps you have come to tell me why my son is dead."

Q raised his head enough to look Picard in the eye. Picard held back a shudder. Had he not known that Q was playing a part – and probably getting quite a laugh out of it – he would have sworn that the look on the entity's face was pure, genuine grief.

For a moment, he wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't address Q as Q. He couldn't afford to let Faramir suspect anything at all. He needed Faramir. And so he needed to treat Q as Denethor. What would he say to Denethor? What would Gandalf say to Denethor?

Before he could think of anything, Q continued. "Oh, you will no doubt tell me that he died well, for you may well say that of any who follow your plans, _Mithrandir_." Picard wasn't sure what the name meant, and now he was even less certain. Faramir used it with respect, as if it were a title of honor, but Q spat it out as if he couldn't think of a worse insult. "Any who bow to your every whim. Any who play your game. But I will not be your pawn. Here I will stay, and let the enemy come. Though we all be destroyed, I will not bow. I will _not_ play along!"

Picard clenched his teeth. Q was having far too much fun.

"Father, I beg you to reconsider," Faramir protested. "I ask only to defend our people."

"You ask to continue to participate in this game that Mithrandir plays. And so you should. He has long had your heart in his keeping. But he shall get no such pleasure from me, and I forbid you to follow him."

Faramir took a step forward, gathering his courage. "Then I must disobey."

"I am your father! Your steward! You _will_ obey me!" The Horn of Gondor clattered to the floor as Q rose threateningly to his feet, his eyes ablaze.

Faramir took a step back but did not recant. "You are my steward, but my orders come from the King of Gondor. My loyalty is to my country, and I will defend her with my life – against your orders, if I must."

With a sudden rageful cry, Q lunged at Faramir, but Picard stepped instinctively between them and struck Q as hard as he could with his staff. Q staggered back, unharmed but genuinely surprised. "So, the puppet-master has at last entered the stage. So be it, then. Faramir, raise your army. Find every soldier who is still able to bear arms and see that he does so."

Faramir, utterly amazed at the change, hurried off before Q could change his mind again. As soon as he was gone, Q broke into a grin. "Well, well, Gandalf! Not exactly what I expected, but quite satisfying, nonetheless."

"And what did you expect? That I would compare this to the situation in Lothlorien? Admit that I should have acted? Take responsibility for Brooke's death, perhaps? Beg you to bring her back to defend her people as I would not defend mine?"

Q shook his head gravely. "No, I knew more than to expect that of you, Mithrandir. You remain as stubborn as ever, and perhaps it will save you yet." He lifted the broken pieces of the Horn of Gondor and placed them carefully – almost reverently – on the low throne behind him. "Fortunately for you, I am not Denethor, and I need no explanation of Boromir's death – of _why _he is dead." He turned, his face once again a mask of Denethor's grief and despair. "Go now, Mithrandir, and die in whatever way seems best to you."

Picard shook his head in disgust and turned to leave, but his curiosity got the better of him. He turned again to face Q. "What does it mean – Mithrandir?"

A playful smile found its way to Q's face. "You need to brush up on your Elvish, Gandalf. It means 'grey pilgrim.'"

Grey Pilgrim. Picard turned and left the hall. In some strange way he couldn't adequately describe, it made sense. And that simple feeling of comprehension worried him as much as the coming battle.

* * *

><p>Hours later, there had been no attack. In fact, the Orcs showed no sign of motion.<p>

"And why should they?" Eomer asked bitterly, his arms crossed over his chest. He, Eowyn, and Faramir had gathered with the crew of the _Enterprise _to discuss their next move. "It would have been one thing to attack last night, with Osgiliath nearly deserted, Minas Tirith practically defenseless. But they must have seen us and decided to wait. They have no reason for haste, and perhaps hope to amass more numbers before attacking."

"There have been reports of Haradrim approaching from the south," Faramir agreed. "We should also be prepared for a seaborne attack. And, of course, more Orcs may be sent from Mordor itself. They have every reason to wait."

"Which means we have every reason to act," Eowyn reasoned. "We should attack now, while their numbers are fewer."

"It is not a battle we could hope to win," Eomer disagreed.

"We don't need to win," O' Brien pointed out. All eyes turned. "Oh, don't get me wrong – I don't mean that it's not important. I'm all in favor of not being destroyed. But we're not here to wipe out all of Mordor's armies. We're supposed to be sending riders up to the Black Gate, and soon, if I'm not mistaken."

"In order to arrive as planned, we must leave by tomorrow." Faramir turned to Picard. "The enemy holds the Anduin River; we must cross it at some point. On horseback, Osgiliath is our only option. They will already have erected some crude form of bridges. But, if we are to reach them, we will need to draw the enemy out of Osgiliath."

"We should split our force into three parts," Eomer nodded, picking up on Faramir's plan. "Those of us bound for the Black Gate should remain out of sight, somewhere to the south. Half of the remaining force should ride for Osgiliath, halting just outside their archers' range. The other half should remain in the city, and only attack if the first group alone is unsuccessful in drawing out the enemy. Once we're safely across the river, the forces retreat back inside the city."

"Wait a minute," Geordi interrupted. "Your plan is to have half your army sitting here as bait so that we can ride off to Mordor and sit there as bait? Sooner or later, the rat's going to smell a trap. Do you really think they'll take the bait?"

Picard shook his head. "Only if we make it worth taking. We can't afford to play cautiously. Faramir, Eomer, you each choose two hundred men. Tell them to stay out of sight. The full remaining force will ride for Osgiliath. The Orcs saw our reinforcements arrive; they must believe we have all our cards on the table. They also know I'm here, which is why I must lead the force." He turned to Faramir. "I'm afraid I must ask you to join me. Your return has been confirmed among your people. The enemy will expect you to lead them. If your father could be persuaded to join us, that would be better still, but I doubt we can convince him."

"As do I," Faramir agreed. "But I, at least, will be at your side."

Picard turned to Eomer and Eowyn. "One of you should ride with each group. The enemy will know that _someone _must have led Rohan's forces, but they needn't know about both of you."

"I will go to the Gate," Eomer volunteered, and there were no objections.

Picard nodded. "If conditions allow, then Faramir, Eowyn, and I will rejoin you. Perhaps we will be able to break away from the battle. But do not wait for us. No matter what, no matter who is left behind, you _must _continue. Some of our force _must _reach the Black Gate. Everything else – everything – is secondary. You wait for _no one_. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Eomer's voice was tense as his gaze strayed to his sister, as if he wasn't sure which to hope for – that she would, in fact, be able to join them, and probably be killed at the Black Gate, or that she would be forced to remain, and probably be killed in the siege of Gondor that would surely follow. Similar glances were exchanged by the crew of the _Enterprise_.

It was Faramir's reassuringly calm voice that at last broke the tension. "When do we ride, Mithrandir?"

"As soon as all our forces can be ready."

"Then we all have work to do." He mounted his horse and rode off to gather his men. The others followed, leaving, at last, only Picard and Data.

Picard removed a bundle from his pack. Data at first looked at it uncertainly, but then understood. "If you are unable to join us…"

Picard nodded. "Riker believed that Faramir, Eomer, and I, along with the Ring, would pose enough of a threat for Sauron to waste time destroying us. If we are not all there, then perhaps this will tip the balance. I trust you to decide who should use it, and when, if it comes to that. But let us hope that it does not."

Data nodded and tucked the Palantir in his pack. "Agreed."


	30. Osgiliath

**Disclaimer: **Thirty chapters in, this is ... still not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty<br>****Osgiliath**

Q watched from a balcony as the army gathered far below. The night – for, indeed, it was now night – was pitch black, but this did nothing to hinder his view. The men and horses and banners down on the field were as clear to him as they would have been to a hawk in broad daylight. Still, even a non-omniscient eye would have spotted Picard, riding back and forth in front of the others, making sure the Orcs could see that he was there. Eowyn was there, too. Only one person was missing.

Q could hear Faramir behind him without turning. "It's quite impressive, really," Q remarked. "What did you say to convince them that this was a good idea? Did you tell them that their king ordered it?"

"I did not," Faramir admitted, approaching.

"Ah, yes, that might have raised questions about the whereabouts of said king," Q nodded. "And I have a feeling they wouldn't like the answers."

"He is where he is needed most. I can say no more."

"You needn't. What you leave unsaid speaks for itself, my son. Do you think I have not guessed the purpose of your brother's errand to Rivendell? And if none of you are in possession of this mighty weapon, then it must be in the hands of your 'king.' If he does not intend to use it, I can only assume that he has taken upon himself a fool's errand." He turned, allowing himself a grim half-smile. "Faramir, your father is old but not yet a dotard. Did you think you could fool me?

"Of course, by now, you needn't worry that I may interfere. This Thing of which we speak is by now far beyond our reach. The end is near, Faramir. Raise your army or let them be. Ride to your death or remain and be slaughtered. We are all doomed, Faramir. Soon, we will both be dead; all of this is vanity.

"You came to ask me to ride with you, Faramir. And ride I shall." He met Faramir's eyes as the young man's expression became one of pure surprise. "Nay, not for the glory, for, when this is over, none will remain to tell the tale. Not even for a quick death; if I wished for that, I could have it by my own hand."

"Then why, Father?"

"Because it is you who asks it, Faramir." He held out his hand, revealing that he still held the horn of Gondor. "You are all I have left, and have returned to me after I long believed you dead. And if even that is to be taken from me, I would wish for us to go to our deaths together, and in peace." He smiled. "Now go, Faramir. I will join you shortly."

Faramir bowed, too stunned to say anything besides, "Thank you, Father," before leaving. Watching him go, Q smiled. It hadn't exactly been the most Denethor-like speech, but parts of it had been close. And, in any case, he had enjoyed it. Besides, he wasn't about to light himself on fire, so he might as well do something fun.

Q snapped his fingers, and a beautiful silver-grey horse appeared at his side. He tucked the broken halves of the Horn of Gondor into its saddlebag, along with another bundle. Another snap, and a sword and shield appeared in his hands.

Q grinned as he galloped down the streets of Minas Tirith. This was going to be fun.

* * *

><p>The look on Picard's face was a priceless mixture of disbelief, curiosity, and dread – for about half a second. Then he composed himself, reminding himself that, Q or no Q, there was a battle to be fought. Q swallowed an outburst of laughter as he took his place next to Faramir. At Picard's signal, the riders began a slow advance.<p>

"So what's the plan?" Q asked.

"We're trying to lure the Orcs out of Osgiliath," Faramir explained.

"Yes, I realize that, but what's the _plan_? We just keep plodding along in this direction until they decide to come and kill us?"

Picard's answer came through clenched teeth. "Yes, Denethor, that is the plan. Do you have a better one?"

Q grinned. Picard was going to regret asking. "Of course I do. I plan to lose my mind." With that, he winked playfully at both Faramir and Picard, then reared his horse and charged towards Osgiliath as quickly as the animal could run.

He didn't need to look back. He could hear the riders behind him, Eowyn in the lead. Not all of them, but enough to cause more than a little chaos. He didn't need to be able to hear every sound on the field – even though he could – to know that Picard was cursing under his breath as he made a split-second decision to signal the rest of them to follow Q's lead.

Q knew Picard would never acknowledge it, but the entity had just saved him from his own flawed little plan. Even with Gandalf there, the Orcs' best option was still to wait in Osgiliath for the enemy to come to them. Unless, of course, they were reacting instead to the temporary madness of a certain Steward of Gondor. Then their best strategy, once the riders got close enough, was to pour out of Osgiliath and surround them to keep them from escaping if some sound-minded captain happened to decide that this wasn't such a good idea, after all.

But first they had to get there. Arrows rained down on them in the dark, causing a series of both thuds and screams as both horses and riders fell, and were subsequently tripped over or trampled. Q could practically feel Picard's glare as the Captain rode closer, trying to provide a little more light so that they wouldn't trip over their own dead.

"Oh yes, brilliant – you might as well shout, 'Look at me! I'm a target!'" Q commented.

Picard immediately realized his mistake as a dozen arrows narrowly missed him. He dimmed his staff just as the floodgates opened and Orcs streamed out of Osgiliath. "Spread out – don't let them surround us!" Picard shouted. "Faramir! Eowyn! Stay close to me!"

Q shook his head. The last instruction was pointless. Faramir was right beside him, as he had been during the entire charge. Both glanced around for Eowyn, but Q knew better. She had been the first to follow his charge, and now lay wounded on the field far behind. If she was lucky, she might be able to make it back to Minas Tirith, but she wouldn't be going to the Black Gate.

Q sliced off an Orc's head. They were on the edges of the battle – Picard had made sure of that, keeping to one side of the charging horses. To the south, Q knew, Eomer and his band were quickly approaching the now-less-occupied city of Osgiliath. Picard would have to make his move soon if he wanted to join them.

And he did. After driving his sword through one Orc and whacking anther to the ground with his staff, Picard broke loose from the battle. Q stuck his sword through the back of an Orc that Faramir was fighting, allowing him to follow, then rode off, as well, behind them. The Orcs, for their part, seemed oddly content to let them go.

The three of them, led by Picard, charged into the city, but then stopped short. Eomer's riders had scattered, and it was clear why. In the center of it all was a Nazgul, riding on a large, winged, black beast.

Picard glanced around, taking in the chaos. The beast had knocked over several buildings that now lay in a pile of rubble, crushing several soldiers and horses. As he watched, Eomer rode towards the beast, only to be picked up and thrown from the saddle by its huge jaws. O' Brien, already on foot, stepped between the Nazgul and Eomer, but was tossed aside just as easily. Geordi stepped in next, but he was flung in Picard's direction.

Shadowfax let out a whinny, and Picard raised his staff, which let off a brilliant light. They were never going to get through Osgiliath with this thing – whatever it was – in the way. He rode forward, dodging the jaws, slicing through the neck. The beast let out a dying shriek and crumpled to the ground, shaking what was left of the buildings, toppling some.

But the rider, robed all in black, his face hidden, was unharmed, and stepped off the beast's back, a sword in one hand, a mace in the other. Picard gripped his staff, and a white light burst from the end, knocking his enemy off-balance. But not for long enough. By the time Picard rode forward to strike, the dark figure was ready, blocking one stroke, then the next. It swung its mace. Picard raised his staff, which blocked the blow, but the force sent Shadowfax stumbling backwards, and the next blow knocked the horse to the ground, with Picard half-buried beneath. The dark being raised its weapon.

But, as the mace came hurtling down, the blow was blocked by a shield. A shield that immediately shattered as Faramir was thrown down beside Picard. "Fool," the dark figure hissed as Faramir, still winded, raised his sword to defend Picard. "No living man may kill me. Die now, and—"

It never finished the sentence. Picard saw the end of a blade poke through the being's chest, and then a familiar voice brought a wave of relief as Picard realized who it was that had finally broken away from the surrounding Orcs long enough to lend a hand. "I am not a living man," came the voice. The voice not of a living man, but of an android.

The dark figure – whatever it was – let loose a cry of pain and astonishment and defeat. The ground trembled again as the creature screamed, seeming to crumble in front of them. Data's sword, as well, seemed to disintegrate, and the android himself staggered and fell, still clutching the hilt of his sword.

Faramir struggled to his feet, still a little shaky, clutching his left arm against his chest; his shield had not stopped the full force of the blow. Still, he used his other arm to help free Picard from the body of his horse, then helped the Captain to his feet. All around them, riders were gathering. Few Orcs had been left in Osgiliath, and now most were dead, the rest fleeing to the other battle.

A ways away, O' Brien was picking himself up from where the beast had thrown him. Geordi lay motionless in a heap of rubble, but Dr. Crusher soon confirmed that he was breathing. Eomer was dead. And Data lay next to what was left of the black rider, completely deactivated. Worf was horseless but otherwise uninjured. Troi was clutching her side but assured him it was nothing. Picard let it go for the moment; he would ask Dr. Crusher to examine her later.

Several other horses were now riderless. Picard quickly mounted one, not trusting his legs to support him. Worf took a hint and mounted another. Dr. Crusher helped O' Brien onto a third before remounting her own. "Faramir?" Picard asked. "Can you ride?"

Faramir nodded weakly, looking around for a horse. "Take mine," Q offered, dismounting. "I'll find another and take the wounded back to the city."

Faramir held out his good arm. Q nodded and grasped it tightly. "Farewell, my son."

"Farewell, Father." Faramir mounted carefully and brought his horse alongside Picard's.

Picard shot Q a look, motioning towards Geordi and Data. Q nodded. "Don't worry, Mithrandir. I'll take care of your Hobbits. Now go."

As much as he didn't want to trust Geordi and Data's lives to Q, Picard knew he had no other choice. As quickly as they could, they crossed the bridges and rode on out of Osgiliath and into the night.

* * *

><p>After several long, tense hours of riding, Picard was finally convinced that the Orcs weren't going to pursue them. They made camp and ate a small meal – no one was certain whether it was a late supper or an early breakfast; the darkness remained unchanged. Most of the men lay down immediately, exhausted, around a fire that Picard had lit. O' Brien, however, sat down at the edge of the camp, facing away from the fire.<p>

"Hama?"

O' Brien turned to see Faramir standing behind him, his arm bandaged and in a sling. "May I join you?" Faramir asked, keeping a distance and tone that let O' Brien know that either answer would be respected. O' Brien nodded, and Faramir took a seat next to him, staring off towards the east.

For a while, they sat there, silent, each content with his own thoughts, not wishing to disturb the other's solitude. The fire dimmed behind them. When, at last, Faramir spoke, his voice was low and quiet, as if he were not speaking to O' Brien at all, but rather himself.

"When Boromir and I were young," he began, "it troubled him that our father was not a king, but only a steward. Once, he asked our father how many years were needed to make a steward a king, if the king did not return. 'Few years, maybe,' our father answered, 'in other places of less royalty. In Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice.'

"I am not a king, Hama. I never will be; nor do I wish for it as Boromir perhaps did. I am not a king, yet my men follow me. They do so not because Aragorn told them to, nor because I am the son of their steward. They are willing to follow because they know and trust me. These men have fought beside me. They know that they can rely on my judgments. I am a leader not because I have inherited a title, but because I have earned their confidence and respect.

"Hama, you are not a king. Nor have I seen in you a desire to rule or even command. And, indeed, it would be rash for any to assume such a title, for it may be that the Lady Eowyn yet lives. Nevertheless, she is not here, and your men are in need of someone to lead them. I say they are your men, Hama, because Eomer himself was willing to trust you not only with his own life, but also, more importantly, with the lives of the soldiers under his command. He made that quite clear. They will look to you, Hama."

O' Brien shook his head. "That's very kind of you, Faramir, but there's not much I can do, one way or the other. We're off to the Black Gate, whether I say so or not."

Faramir nodded. "I was not speaking of making decisions regarding our path. For good or ill, that has been decided. What you _can_ do, Hama, is give them hope. What a leader says is certainly important; the orders he gives may change the course of a battle. But the example he sets by his actions is even more important. If the men see that you still have hope, Hama, they will have hope, as well.

O' Brien nodded. Faramir was right, after a fashion. But battles weren't determined solely by which side had the most hope. At some point, you also needed numbers. And weapons. All the hope in the world didn't do any good if you were waving a stick at someone who was holding a phaser.

Silence fell once more. Faramir returned to gazing out into the east, as if his eyes could somehow pierce the darkness and the borders of Mordor itself. "Where are they?" O' Brien asked at last. "Frodo and Aragorn?"

"If all has gone as planned, they should reach the pass above Minas Morgul soon, if they have not already." Faramir shook his head. "If this darkness does not lift, I fear it will be difficult to determine their progress – or our own."

O' Brien nodded. "Well, as long as we all keep moving, we'll get where we're going eventually."

"Do you believe that?"

"Not for a moment, but I was trying to sound hopeful. How'd I do?"

Faramir smiled faintly. "At least you're honest. Sometimes, I fear, all that remains is a fool's hope. But perhaps that will suffice."

O' Brien stared off into the darkness in the east. "Maybe it will."


	31. The Choices of William Riker

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-One<br>****The Choices of William Riker**

"We should be close now."

"_Should_ be?" Wesley tried not to let the fear show in his voice. They were out of the forest now, following what appeared to be a road along the side of a mountain range. Despite the absolute darkness, Wesley felt terribly exposed. And now Riker was practically admitting that they were lost. "Do you know where we are?"

"Not exactly," Riker admitted. "It's like Moria. Brooke didn't know exactly where she was going – much as she wanted us to believe that she did – but she had enough of a general idea to find the way through. I know there should be a gap in the mountains here somewhere, and that it leads to some stairs and a long tunnel. I _know_ it has to be somewhere near here. I just don't know exactly _where_."

Wesley nodded and remained silent as they continued on, Riker running his hand blindly along the rock to his left. As they stumbled along in the darkness, Wesley slowly realized that the way was growing clearer. He looked up. In the distance stood a tower, tall and dark, but somehow glowing with a pale, almost ghostly light. He could see a bridge in front of him, and the road forked, one path continuing straight, the other veering off to the right, towards the pale tower.

Wesley felt a hand on his shoulder. Only as Riker pulled him back did he realize he had been drawn towards the tower, as if it were some great magnetic force. "What is it?" Wesley asked, his eyes never leaving the pale light.

"Minas Morgul," Riker answered, and was no longer particularly surprised to find that he was absolutely certain of the answer. There was nothing else that a pale, glowing tower could be. "So we haven't missed our path. Just past this bridge, our secret entrance should be on the left." He pulled Wesley back once more. "Trust me, Wesley, we don't want to go that way."

Wesley at last tore his gaze away from the light and followed Riker along the path. Sure enough, after they crossed the bridge, Riker found his gap in the face of the mountain. He stepped through first, and, for a moment, Wesley feared he would not return, that perhaps he had stepped off a cliff or into a pit. But the panic only lasted a moment, for Riker returned. "This is it, Wesley," he whispered. "This is our path. Follow me."

Cautiously, Wesley, too, stepped through the gap, and found that they were on yet another path, this one winding upward along the rocks. Riker studied the path as well as he could in the dark. "All right, then," he said at last, quietly. "Let's go."

Wesley wanted to wait. To stay and rest and perhaps wait for dawn. But that was ridiculous. They hadn't seen true daylight since crossing the Anduin, and weren't likely to any time soon. It might be noon, for all he knew. Besides, it had only been a few hours, Wesley reckoned, since they had last slept. There was no reason to stop. No reason except for his own fear, and that wasn't likely to fade, no matter how long they rested.

So they continued on, side by side, for the path was wide enough for both. It rose steadily – but not too steeply – for a mile or two, Wesley guessed. Then the path turned and narrowed, until it was little more than a ledge in the mountain-face. To their left was the mountain, to their right a sheer drop.

"Be careful," Riker whispered. The warning was hardly necessary. Slowly, keeping their backs to the mountain, they found their way along the ledge. They hadn't gone far – perhaps half a mile – when Riker stopped. The path ahead turned left, becoming a narrow staircase that cut into the rock and climbed steeply – almost like a ladder – far beyond what little they could see in the dark.

Riker shifted forward a little along the path. "You should go first, Wesley. If you fall, I might be able to catch you, and if I fall, well, I'd rather not take you with me."

Wesley nodded, then realized Riker wouldn't be able to see that in the darkness. "Okay," he agreed. "I'll go first. How tall is this thing?"

"Tall," Riker answered vaguely. "But not as tall, perhaps, as I thought. By the time they reach this place in the books, Wesley, only Frodo and Sam are still on this path. So, naturally, it would seem taller when described by Hobbits." Wesley wasn't sure, but he thought Riker was smiling. "Don't worry, Wes – if two little Hobbits could do it, you'll be fine."

To Riker's relief, Wesley began to climb. Better not to mention that the Hobbits had had a guide. A guide who had betrayed them and tried to lead them to their deaths. Better not to mention – not yet, at least – what had befallen Frodo and Sam at the pass of Cirith Ungol.

The stairs were steep. Narrow. The edges worn, sometimes cracked. There were walls on both sides, and that was a comfort, at least, but the drop behind them was growing with every step. If Wesley were to fall, Riker knew, despite his hopeful words, there would be nothing he could do to stop him, and, more likely than not, they would both fall to their deaths.

Riker shuddered, but it was not the thought of falling that troubled him, even as a piece of rock crumbled in his hand as he grasped at the next stair. The darkness reminded him of Moria. There, they had woken a Balrog. Here, the evil had long been roused. Every step brought them closer to Mordor, the heart of evil in Middle-Earth. Except, this time, there was no eastern gate. No way out. Once they were inside, there was no turning back.

Riker brushed the thought aside. There was already no turning back. No thought of going back down this narrow stair, back westward along the path, back across the Anduin. Back to Gondor or Rohan or Lothlorien or even Rivendell. They would not be going back. And that had been decided for a long time.

Rivendell. It seemed so long since they had arrived. Yet, startled though he had been at the time, he still remembered Elrond's parting words. _'On you who go with him, no oath nor bond is laid to go further than you will. For you do not yet know the strength of your hearts, and you cannot foresee what each may meet upon the road.' _Indeed, they could not have foreseen. None of them – not even Brooke – had fully understood what they would face.

_'Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.' _Brooke's words echoed in Riker's mind. What would she have thought of his plan? Would she have been able to come up with something else? Some way for Riker and Wesley to travel through Mordor together? Or would she, too, have come to the conclusion that this was the only way?

_'Maybe,' _had been the Elf-lord's reply. _'But let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.'_ The nightfall. And a long night it was turning out to be. Brooke had vowed to walk in the dark, to see the Quest completed, no matter the darkness. With her death, Riker knew, that responsibility had passed to him. He would see that the Quest was completed. Just not in the way that anyone – Brooke, Elrond, or even Q – would have expected.

"Just a little farther, Commander," Wesley's voice cut through the darkness. He had reached the top.

Riker forced his legs to climb a few more steps, then collapsed beside Wesley. "We shouldn't rest long," he advised. "There's a short passage, and then another stair – not as steep as this, but longer, I think. Then we can rest."

The next stair was, indeed, longer, but far more practical, Riker thought, weaving its way back and forth along the side of the cliff instead of climbing straight up. On they climbed, up and up, until, at last, the stairs ended, and they came to a long ravine, with walls of jagged rocks on either side.

There they rested at last, and ate, and drank, though sparingly. They would have enough, Wesley reckoned, but it was better to be careful. Besides, his mind wasn't on food. Something else had caught his eye. In the distance, off to the east, he could see a flickering red light. As he studied it, he realized he was looking at a tower, tall and dark against the lightless sky. "Commander," he whispered, and pointed.

Riker nodded expressionlessly. "The tower is called Cirith Ungol. It stands at the end of our path."

Wesley would have jumped up if he hadn't been so tired. "Is this what you've been hiding? It's _guarded_? I thought you said this was a secret entrance!"

"As secret as it can be," Riker assured him.

"Is that the reason you wanted the poison? Is there a guard there? Someone we'll need to sneak past?"

It was a reasonable guess. Riker shook his head. "No, Wesley. We are not going to poison anyone in the tower. But, please believe me, I do have a plan."

"Then, with all due respect, Sir, I think it's about time you told me what it is!" Wesley insisted.

Riker began packing up the food. "All right, Wes. I'll make you a deal. About a mile down the path, we're going to enter a tunnel. It goes on for miles in the dark, this way and that, before finally exiting a little ways away from that tower. Now, Wesley, there's a spider that lives in that tunnel. It's her lair. Frodo and Sam barely escaped alive, but they didn't know about the spider. We won't be caught off-guard." He placed a hand on his sword. "Once she realizes we won't be an easy meal, maybe she'll give up. If not – if it comes to a fight – there are two of us. Stay with me. Aim for the eyes if you do get a chance to strike; we won't be able to pierce her hide. We'll have to be on guard at all times inside the tunnel, but we'll make it out, Wesley."

"And the tower?"

"One thing at a time, Wesley. We need to get past Shelob first. After that, I promise you, I'll tell you everything you want to know." Not much of a compromise on his part, Riker knew. He would have had to tell him, anyway. But, hopefully, the promise of information would ease Wesley's nerves.

Apparently, it worked, because Wesley's only question was, "Shelob? The giant spider has a _name_?"

"Of course," Riker shrugged. "Horses, eagles, swords – they all get names. Why not spiders, too?"

Wesley sighed and helped pack up the last of the supplies. "All right," he agreed, getting to his feet. "Let's go find your big bug."

Down the path they went, and, sure enough, after about a mile, Wesley could see a giant, gaping hole. A cave. Large enough for a much bigger spider than Wesley had guessed. A terrible, foul stench came from inside. "No matter what, stay close," Riker reminded Wesley, and, hand in hand, they stepped into the darkness.

Once they were inside, Riker reached into his pocket. "Perhaps now, at last, we may have some light." He drew out the Phial of Galadriel, and, immediately, a brilliant white light burst forth.

"Where did you get that?"

"From Q. Here." He handed the glass to Wesley, and, immediately, the light grew brighter. "It's meant to be yours, Frodo."

Wesley stared at the phial, scarcely even noticing that Riker had called him Frodo. Back on the Anduin, Brooke had used the light to frighten away a Black Rider. Would it have the same effect on the spider? In any case, it made the path much easier to see, and would make it much more difficult for Shelob to sneak up on them if she did decide to attack.

And so they continued on in brighter light than they had seen in days. They passed many smaller tunnels, but the main passageway always continued straight forward, sloping steadily upward. The path was smooth, the light unchanging. Only the foul smell reminded Wesley of the danger they were in.

At last, they passed a large tunnel entrance to the left, and the smell grew stronger. Wesley gasped and almost took off running, but Riker grabbed his shoulder. "Splitting up was the Hobbits' mistake. Frodo ran on ahead, and Sam was attacked by Gollum from behind."

"Gollum?"

"I haven't heard him following us. If he followed you to Rohan, he couldn't have kept up with us riding back east. But, even without him, there's still the spider. She's less likely to attack us both at once."

Wesley nodded. "Thanks … for stopping me."

"You're welcome, Wesley. We're almost out now, but we're not safe. Shelob has probably seen us by now. You've seen how many tunnels there are. Most likely, she's waiting for us just outside the exit, where she'll have more room. We'll have to be ready."

He drew his sword, and Wesley did the same. Together, they set out again. As they neared the exit, Wesley could see spider webs. Side by side, they hacked their way through one after another. Still, they saw no sign of the spider herself.

As soon as the tunnel opened into a large chamber, however, she charged. But Riker was ready. He pushed Wesley to one side, then ducked back to the other. As he had hoped, Shelob chose him as the easier prey – the light from the phial was too great for one so accustomed to the darkness.

Riker dodged her stinger, then ducked under one of her giant legs, away from Wesley. Shelob lunged, but Riker struck at her head, hoping to hit an eye, her only tender spot. The spider let out a fearsome shriek but backed up a little, hesitant, as if deciding whether she was truly hungry enough to make this worth the trouble.

As she hesitated, before Riker could shout to Wesley not to, the boy charged, striking at her massive body. Shelob turned, barely noticing the blow, certainly not injured. Wesley backed up a step, but, as the spider charged, he lunged forward, ducking beneath her belly. Riker saw his chance. Pulling her attention from Wesley, he positioned himself directly under the spider's head.

The full weight of the spider came hurtling downwards. But, even as Riker rolled to the side to avoid her stinger, Shelob let loose a deafening squeal of pain. As she had dropped, Wesley had turned his sword to point upwards, and she had thrown her entire weight upon it, injuring herself more than they could have hoped to. Shelob scrambled to her feet, recoiling in pain and terror, and scurried off into one of the tunnels.

Wesley got up slowly, his sword coated in oozy, yellow-green blood. Riker sheathed his sword. "Well done, Wesley. That's thinking like a Hobbit."

Wesley wiped his sword off the best he could on the ground, then sheathed it. "What now, Sir? Now will you tell me how we're going to get past that tower?"

Riker nodded. He'd hoped to be able to rest for a moment, to gather his strength, but Wesley was insistent. And he was right. It was only a matter of time before Orcs were sent to investigate the noise. He couldn't afford to rest. Not yet. "Wesley, I'm going to need that poison back. And the dagger."

As Riker had hoped, the fact that they had just fought a giant spider together had done wonders for Wesley's trust issues. He handed over the weapons without a fuss. "Now – How do we get past the tower?"

"_We_ don't."

"What?"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to spoil the end of the second book for you, Wesley. It's a rather hopeless-seeming ending. When Frodo and Sam are attacked by Shelob, Frodo is stung and poisoned. Sam believes him to be dead and takes the Ring. But Frodo isn't dead, and Orcs come to take him to Cirith Ungol. That's how the book ends."

"Sam … goes on alone?"

"No. Once he learns Frodo is alive, he resolves to find him. He rescues Frodo, and they continue on to Mount Doom together. But I'm afraid it can't happen that way this time."

Wesley's eyes grew huge with terror. "You're … you're going to leave me here? Take the Ring? Let them find me?"

Riker shook his head gravely. "No, Wesley. The Orcs aren't going to take you. They're going to take me."

Relief and horror struck Wesley at the same time. "Wait – _what?_ You? You're going to – and you want me to – Commander, why?"

"Several reasons, actually. First, the Orcs must find someone. If not, they'll be on their guard throughout Mordor, and we'll never make it to Mount Doom. Second, I have a task to perform, and it requires that they capture me alive. Last, as for why me and not you, this is your Quest. For better or worse, the Ring was entrusted to Frodo Baggins, not Aragorn."

"But … I don't know the way."

"I know. That's why you have to listen to me very carefully. See that passage there? It leads back to the main road. Follow it east past the tower, then follow it as it turns north. There will be mountains to your right. Cross them as soon as it is safe to do so. Once you're across – and probably before – you'll see Mount Doom. It's a huge volcano, Wesley; you can't miss it. There's an old road that winds around the entire mountain. It leads up to an entrance on the eastern side. Go in and toss the Ring in the fire."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"And you remembered all that?"

"Actually, there's a very detailed drawing of it on a map that Data has," Riker lied, not wanting Wesley to know that he would be relying on memories that had come to Riker's mind just when he had needed them. "Stay out of sight of the Orcs. If there's a large group of them, go around, not through, no matter how much longer you think it will take. Better that the Quest gets finished a little later than Sauron gets the Ring because you wanted it over with quickly. Rest when you need it, and find cover if you can. Take my pack, and you'll have more than enough food and water. And, Wesley?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Do _not_ try to rescue me, no matter what. The Orcs will want me alive; I'll be all right. The best way – the _only _way – to help me is to destroy the Ring. Do you understand?"

"But, Sir—"

"Wesley, this is a direct order from your commanding officer. You will attempt no rescue. You will complete your mission. Is that understood?"

Wesley swallowed hard. "Yes, Sir."

Riker placed a hand gently on Wesley's shoulder. "I would have gone with you to the end," he said quietly, "into the very fires of Mordor. But you must do so alone. If you ever doubt yourself, remember Frodo. I'm going to spoil another ending for you, Wes: He completes the Quest. The Ring is destroyed. Middle-Earth is saved. If you doubt your courage, your determination, remember how Frodo must have felt. He didn't have any Starfleet training. He wasn't an officer on the finest ship in the fleet. If he could do it, so can you."

Wesley nodded. "Yes, Sir."

"Now, I'm going to need you to hide, Wesley. Orcs will come soon. After they've taken me, wait until you are sure they're gone. Then – and only then, Wesley – continue on your way. Stay out of sight, and do _not_ put It on, not for any reason."

"Yes, Sir."

Riker unsheathed his dagger. "Wesley, you might want to look away."

Wesley shook his head stubbornly. Riker took the dagger carefully in his left hand and positioned its tip against his chest, near his right shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he drew the dagger back, then plunged it into his chest.

Gasping, he drew the dagger out again, sheathed it, and handed it to Wesley. "If I'm lucky, that will look convincingly enough like a spider's stinger. And this—" he uncorked the bottle, "should mimic the effects of her poison near enough." After only a moment's hesitation, he drank the liquid and handed Wesley the bottle.

"It should take effect any moment now," Riker reasoned, drawing his sword. "I need you to hide, Wesley, and do as I said." He tried his best to smile. "The Quest is now in your hands, Frodo Baggins."

Wesley managed a quiet, "Yes, Sir," as he scrambled into one of the tunnels. As he watched, Riker sank to his knees, then collapsed in a heap, still clutching Anduril convincingly in his hand. Wesley slipped the Phial of Galadriel into his pocket, and, immediately, the light went out.

Moments later, he could hear voices. Then he saw torches. Orcs. Wesley ducked low inside the tunnel. They paid him no attention; they had eyes only for their new prisoner. After they had gone, Wesley waited for what seemed like hours before coming out of hiding. Finally, he crept silently through the passage and past the Tower of Cirith Ungol.

For a moment, he stopped. It didn't look all that heavily guarded. What if Riker was wrong? What if the Orcs didn't want to keep him alive? Could he really survive long enough for Wesley to complete the Quest?

But then he remembered what Riker had said. He had his mission. His orders. He was still an officer, and Riker was still his superior. Maybe it wasn't the right reason to continue, but it was a reason, nonetheless.

Wesley gripped the Ring tightly and turned north along the road.


	32. Wings of Darkness

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note, Updated: **A while after posting this, I did decide to go back and change the rating to M. Up until this point, you may have been wondering why. This is where the story gets darker. This is where the M rating starts to be warranted, mostly with regards to Riker's storyline. If my writing does start to disturb you, a good rule of thumb is to just skip to the next line break, and I'll be back to something cheerful ... like Picard and company leading a suicide mission to the Black Gate ... or Wesley crossing Mordor all by himself, or ... Oh, never mind. This story is long past the cheerful stage, and if you can't live with that, you probably stopped reading quite a few chapters back and aren't even seeing this warning.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Two<br>****Wings of Darkness**

Standing in a small upper room at the top of the Tower of Ecthalion, Q watched the Orcs carry Riker away. In his hands was a Palantir; he had taken it from Data's bag after bringing the android and Geordi back to Minas Tirith earlier that day. But it was a fair exchange. He had left his own Palantir – the one Denethor had in his possession – in his own horse's saddlebag, along with the Horn of Gondor. Sooner or later, Faramir would find it.

Q tucked the Palantir inside his cloak. Riker's sacrifice had come as a surprise. It was also a gamble. How long Riker would survive as the Orcs' prisoner, even Q didn't know. The Orcs would assume he was important, and Sauron would be desperate to know what the King of Gondor was doing in Mordor. The question, of course, was whether that curiosity would keep Riker alive or get him killed.

Q smiled. He had a few hours before Riker would awaken. Most of the city was asleep; it was now well past midnight. But there was someone else who would certainly be awake.

Q found Data in the Houses of Healing, keeping an eye on Geordi as he slept. Eowyn, too, lay nearby. Data's arm was in a sling, and Geordi's chest was bandaged where the Nazgul's beast had bitten him.

Data stood as Q approached. "The soldiers have informed me that you brought us back from the battle while we were both unconscious."

Q nodded. "The only way Gandalf would leave was if I promised to keep you safe. And so I have."

"Sauron's armies have not yet attacked," Data observed.

Q chuckled. "You haven't got the slightest idea what you did, do you, Pippin? You slew the Lord of the Nazgul. The Witch King. The greatest of the Nine. He was their commander. They'll be more cautious now. They'll wait. After all, why shouldn't they? They have more armies on the way, and we are expecting none."

Data considered this for a moment. "They are not concerned with the soldiers who are riding to the Black Gate?"

"Not yet. They assume that they will be defeated by the force that is waiting in Mordor. Why swat the fly when it is about to be caught in the spider's web?"

"Then the enemy does not yet suspect that they have the Ring."

"Not yet. But I believe Aragorn intends to remedy that."

Data took the bait. "How would he accomplish that?"

"Come with me," Q invited, "and I'll show you."

Data hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity won out. As he followed Q up flight after flight of stairs, the entity explained what he had seen in the Palantir. "They will not believe he is alone," Data concluded as they entered the upper chamber. "If he was poisoned and left unconscious, then who drove away the spider?"

Q grinned. "Who, indeed? But if he appears to recover from the poison more quickly than they had anticipated, they might allow for the possibility that the poison may have taken longer to take its full effect, leaving Aragorn the time to strike a few final blows. Of course, for those blows to have frightened Shelob away, the Orcs must have in their clutches the mightiest warrior since the time of Beren and Turin. _That _is what Aragorn must now prove."

"If he were to escape, that would be proof enough," Data suggested.

"Naturally. But, if he escapes, Sauron's armies will be frantically searching Mordor for him – and, in doing so, they would almost certainly find Frodo."

"Then … he does not plan to escape?"

Q shook his head. "I doubt it. It would defeat the point of allowing himself to be captured in the first place. I believe he hopes to prove himself simply by withstanding everything they have in store for him. If he survives, and still refuses to reveal their mission, they will know they have a mighty hero in their midst, and maybe – maybe – they'll believe that he dared to enter Mordor alone."

"I should have been sent," Data said matter-of-factly. "He will be tortured. They may kill him. They could not have harmed me."

"Which is exactly why they _couldn't _send you," Q reasoned. "You would never have been convincing enough. Never mind for the moment that Sauron knows a Hobbit has the Ring, and that might give away the entire plan. A prisoner who can endure pain is one thing, Pippin. A prisoner who appears to feel no pain at all … Once they saw that they could not persuade you to talk by force, they would have destroyed you. Aragorn is still intent on getting all of you out of Middle-Earth alive. He's gambling that the Orcs won't kill him – at least, not before the Ring is destroyed."

"Is he correct?"

"I don't know," Q admitted. "What fun is an experiment if you already know the outcome? I haven't predicted any of this. I never knew what was going to happen next. That's the exciting thing."

Clearly, Data did not understand what was 'exciting' about not knowing whether Riker was going to live or die, but knew better than to say so. "Where is Wesley now?" he asked, instead.

Q smiled and brought out the Palantir. "Why don't we find out?"

"The last time I used it—"

Q laughed. "Ah, yes, the burned hand teaches best. But don't worry about that, Pippin. It will only show us whatever I tell it to."

"Very well." Data held out his right hand; his left arm still hung in his sling.

"Is that just for show?" Q asked. "Too suspicious if they didn't find anything wrong with you at all?"

Data shook his head. "No, it is quite real. None of the pathways in my arm are responding, nor have they since the battle."

"Since you stabbed the Witch King," Q clarified. "Splendid." He placed the Palantir in Data's hand. "Now let's check up on Frodo."

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><p>Mountains appeared in the Palantir, and a road. A small figure – very small, he seemed, and very exposed – crept along the road. As they watched, he turned away from the path and into the mountains to the east. Up he climbed, away from the road. At last, he found a small gap – a cave, almost – out of sight of any Orcs that might travel the road.<p>

Wesley shivered and pulled his cloak tighter. But he would not have dared to make a fire, even if he'd had the means. Nor had he used the Phial of Galadriel to find his way into the mountains; the light may have attracted attention. Instead, hidden from the Orcs, he ate a little, drank a little water, and lay down to sleep.

How long it had been since he last slept, Wesley could not guess. He was weary not only from the day's long, hard journey up the stairs and through the spider's lair, but also with grief and confusion. Why hadn't Riker told him sooner? And how could he have ever suspected that Riker would harm him?

Wesley's hand closed around the Ring. It had made him suspicious. He had been wary of Its power over Riker, and, in doing so, had forgotten that It might also hold sway over him. He fingered it carefully. Such power in such a little thing. He would have to be careful.

Data watched as Wesley finally drifted off to sleep. Q was grinning with satisfaction. "Frodo is finally beginning to realize the weight of the burden he carries. What will happen, I wonder, when he has to decide whether to destroy It?"

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><p>Q was true to his word. Two hours after being carried off by the Orcs, Riker awoke. Aside from the pain in his chest where he had stabbed himself, he felt no worse than if he had just awoken from two hours of sleep when what he really needed was a full night's worth.<p>

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was in a round chamber. A red lamp hung from the ceiling, providing the only light. Two Orcs sat on the far side of the room by a pile of clothes and weapons that Riker slowly realized were his. He was naked except for his trousers, and his hands were bound. To his surprise, this was his only restraint, and the Orcs didn't appear to notice that he was awake. Clearly, they hadn't expected him to regain consciousness so quickly. That would work in his favor.

It would be easiest to lie low. To pretend to be unconscious as long as possible. If he caused trouble, they would treat him more roughly. If they considered him a threat, they would take precautions – painful ones. But that was what he was there for, in the end. To cause trouble. To be a threat, so that Wesley would not be.

Riker leapt to his feet and charged. The nearest Orc, startled, didn't even react until Riker practically fell on top of him, seizing the Orc's club rather clumsily in his hands and bringing it down across the Orc's head. The other drew his sword, but Riker was faster. One swing swept the Orc's legs out from under him, and another knocked him out.

Riker knelt quickly and found his dagger. Placing it in his mouth, he managed to cut the ropes around his wrists, only slipping and nicking the back of his hand once. He grabbed Anduril just as Orcs began to climb through a trapdoor in the center of the room, investigating the ruckus. He slew the first Orc and wounded the second, but the third forced him away from the trapdoor, allowing more to climb through.

Soon, he was backed up against the wall. One of the Orcs – a particularly large brute – swung his club into Riker's stomach. Riker doubled over, giving the Orc a chance to bring its club down against Riker's back. Anduril clattered to the floor as Riker collapsed.

A kick in the side rolled Riker over onto his back. One clawed hand struck him in the chest. Another swiped across his face. The Orcs held him down, their faces triumphant. One of the Orcs picked up Anduril, but immediately cast it aside as though burnt. Another blow struck Riker's side.

"Enough!" insisted a gruff voice. "All prisoners are to be delivered _alive_."

"'e could have escaped," one of the others insisted. "This 'un's not like th'others. It weren't two hours ago 'e were poisoned, an' now 'e's fightin' like 'e weren't hurt at all. Next time, 'e might escape, an' then what? No pris'ner, not even a body, just a bit o' Elvish scum loose in Mordor."

"We should kill 'im now," another voice suggested. "Not take the chance." Other voices murmured their approval. Several Orcs were fingering their weapons. Riker struggled to get loose, but dozens of hands held him fast.

"Now listen 'ere!" the gruff one – apparently the Orc in charge – yelled, silencing them all. "There's to be no killin' until we receive our orders. But yer right. We can't allow the scum to escape. Hoist 'im up on 'is feet, boys!"

Riker was pulled from the floor and held up by several Orcs. He tried to break away, but they shoved him this way and that and finally held him with his back up against the wall. The gruff-voiced Orc nodded to the big one with the club. The big brute chuckled evilly as he took his place in front of Riker. He raised his large, metal club.

Riker closed his eyes, but that did nothing to block the pain that shot through his legs – first one and then the other – as the club struck with a terrible crack. The Orcs let go, and Riker crumpled to the floor, helpless.

Riker cried in pain, clutching his legs. Several Orcs delivered a few last kicks before their leader stepped in. He glared down at Riker, savoring his helplessness. The prisoner who, only moments ago, had seemed such a threat now lay crippled before him. "Tie 'im up, boys!" he ordered.

A foul-tasting cloth was shoved in Riker's mouth, muffling his screams as they bound him. His hands were tied again, more tightly, and this time behind his back. A thick, rough cloth was bound tightly over his eyes. A large sack was pulled over his head. Last of all, his legs, now useless, were roped together at the ankles. Then he was shoved against the wall and left alone, his screams of pain muffled by the gag and the sack but not altogether silenced.

For hours, Riker lay helpless in the dark, and the Orcs left him more or less alone. Once, the sack and gag were removed, and a warm, foul liquid was poured down his throat. Riker gagged and sputtered but finally managed to drink a little. Then he was left alone again.

Perhaps an hour later – probably less; everything seemed longer than it probably was – he heard footsteps. Something struck him in the chest, rolling him over. A few clawed hands forced him to sit up, and he could feel more ropes bound around his chest and legs. Then he was lifted once more, and a series of jolts and sudden drops revealed that he was being lowered down through the trapdoor.

Pain shot through Riker's legs as he was dragged across the floor, then down a series of steps. How many, he did not know, but, when the stairs ended, he was dragged a little more, and then the air changed. It was colder, and thicker, and, though the Orcs' stench was gone, Riker could tell even through the sack's fabric that it had only been replaced by a different odor.

Then he felt a chill, though the air had not, he thought, grown colder. A shudder ran through his body. Then claws – giant claws, he thought, from the feel – closed around him, and he was lifted once more. The creature's grip – if that was, indeed, what it was – tightened, and consciousness left him.

* * *

><p>Q placed a hand on the Palantir, and the image slowly faded until they could no longer see the Nazgul, its flying beast, or Riker dangling limply in the creature's claws. "Where is it taking him?" Data asked.<p>

Q smiled grimly. "Boromir told Gandalf once that she would lead your Fellowship over Caradhras, or into a dragon's lair … or to the tower of Barad-dur, if it served your purpose." He shook his head. "I don't think she ever believed that it actually would."


	33. The Edge of Night

**Disclaimer: **Still isn't mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Three<br>****The Edge of Night**

Wesley was shaken from his sleep by a high, piercing screech. His hand flew to the Ring as he huddled against the back of the cave. A dark shape – darker, it seemed, than the sky itself – passed overhead, high above him. A shiver coursed through his body as he forced himself to release the Ring. It would not hide him. Not from the Black Riders.

Instead, he felt around in his pocket for the Phial of Galadriel. He didn't draw it out; its light would certainly attract attention. But, as his hand closed around it, warmth seemed to fill his body.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel," Wesley whispered, but he could remember no more of the words Brooke had spoken. "Elbereth," he repeated, and the warmth filled him once more. The dark shape passed on, taking no notice of him. Slowly, Wesley released the phial, then took some food from his pack. After eating and drinking as much as he dared, he crept quietly out of the cave.

It was still dark. Wesley studied the sky for a moment. No sun. No moon. No stars. No way at all to even guess how much time had passed, how long he had slept. "Oh, well," he mumbled, getting to his feet. "Maybe this way I won't realize how tired I am."

He had to keep going down the mountains; that much, he remembered. It was slow going in the dark, but perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful that there were no lights. In this ever-growing night, lights would mean torches, which would mean Orcs. At least the thick, unbroken darkness meant that he was alone.

Alone. Wesley couldn't shake the feeling that that wasn't right. That he wasn't supposed to be alone. Every so often, as he stumbled along, he wondered if he should have gone after Riker. But it was too late. Too late to try to find his way back, too late to even assume that Riker was still in the same place.

Besides, he had his orders. Riker didn't _want _to be rescued. No, that wasn't right, either. Riker hadn't _wanted_ to be captured. But it was what needed to happen.

Wesley pulled his cloak tighter, trying to picture a small Hobbit, instead, plodding along through Mordor alone. Frodo had done it. Somehow, he had found his way to Mount Doom. One Hobbit. One small Hobbit, out of place in a strange land, part of a journey that was too big and important and unfamiliar.

Wesley looked out to the east as the ground flattened around him. Somewhere in the distance, a dark shape loomed. So far away. But not impossibly far. Wesley clenched his fists and took another step closer to Mount Doom.

* * *

><p>"Mithrandir!"<p>

Picard looked up from the food he was putting back into his sack. Faramir stood beside him, his face pale in the dying firelight. O' Brien stood behind him, watching. "What is it, Faramir?" Picard asked.

Faramir held out a bundle – a round object, wrapped in cloth. "I found this in my father's saddlebag. Perhaps he meant for us to have it."

Picard took the bundle cautiously. The size and weight were unmistakable; it couldn't be anything but a Palantir. And Q wanted them to have it? Why? To replace the one Picard had entrusted to Data?

"I will look after this," Picard assured Faramir, who seemed satisfied with this answer and hurried off to ready his own horse.

O' Brien lingered, uneasy. "It wasn't put there by accident, Gandalf," he said at last, quietly. "What if Denethor's trying to tell us something?"

Picard nodded. "It would seem he wants us to use it. Perhaps he wants us to believe that our plan will not succeed unless one of us uses this to reveal ourselves to Sauron."

"That's certainly what he _wants_ us to believe," O' Brien agreed. "But is he trying to help us distract Sauron, or is he hoping that, if one of us looks into that thing, Sauron will figure out what we're really trying to do?"

Picard shook his head. "I don't know yet. But we have time." He tucked the Palantir into his own saddlebag. "We still have time."

* * *

><p>Cold. That was the first thing Riker noticed. There was a heavy, icy dampness in the air. He was shivering. Trembling with cold and pain and fear.<p>

He opened his eyes. The blindfold, sack, and gag were gone, as were the ropes that had bound him. Thick metal cuffs circled his wrists, fastened together by a chain perhaps half a meter long. His legs were unfettered, but it hardly made a difference. He tried once to move them a little, but even that slight movement left him gasping in pain, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out.

Slowly, careful not to move his legs again, Riker looked around, taking in his surroundings. The room was small – perhaps five meters in each direction. The floor was stone and terribly cold. The ceiling was low; had he been able to stand, Riker could have reached it. An assortment of chains and metal bars hung from the ceiling. Others dangled from the walls or sprouted from the floors. Some of the chains were attached to pulleys and levers. There were no windows, and only one door, on the far side of the room. The only light came from two pale red lamps, one on either side of the door.

A few feet away lay a shallow metal bowl. Clenching his teeth to keep from crying out in pain, Riker dragged himself toward the bowl, pushing himself against the cold, stone floor, pulling on a few of the chains that dangled low enough for him to reach. His broken legs protested, but it was worth it. The bowl was filled with a liquid he could only guess was water. After taking a moment to catch his breath, he drank gratefully, though the water was warm and had a foul, oily taste.

Slowly, Riker lay down and closed his eyes, gathering his strength. He could guess what awaited him once the Orcs realized he was awake. He would have to fight. As long as he still had strength left, he had to fight. They had to believe him, even if it killed him.

Which was still a possibility. But not a likely one – not for a while, at least. His greatest danger had been that the Orcs at Cirith Ungol would disobey their orders. He didn't have to worry about that now. If he died here, in the dungeons of Barad-dur, it would be at Sauron's command. Which wasn't out of the question. But, first, Sauron would want information.

And the Dark Lord had patience. He had waited nearly three millennia to regain his former strength and once again threaten Middle-Earth. He could afford to wait a few days for one prisoner to talk.

Riker could hear footsteps. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. After a moment, the footsteps stopped, and the door creaked open.

Only three Orcs. On his feet, he might have been able to handle them. With Anduril, it would hardly have been a fight. These Orcs weren't large, like the Uruk-Hai he had seen, nor even like the Orcs at Cirith Ungol. These three were smaller, cowardly creatures, hunched over and smiling maliciously. Their strength came not from any physical ability, but from the helplessness of their prey.

One of them confidently approached his crippled prisoner. Riker waited until the Orc bent down closer, then flung the chain that bound his wrists around the Orc's neck. The Orc sprang up, startled, dragging Riker with him. Riker gasped as he was thrown from side to side, his legs slamming uselessly against the floor. The Orc was stronger than he looked. But so was Riker. He pulled tighter and tighter until the Orc stopped thrashing beneath him, and, finally, the pair crumpled to the floor. Riker freed his chain from the dead Orc's neck, glaring up at the other two from where he lay, daring them to try the same thing.

For their part, the Orcs' evil grins had turned to smug satisfaction. They had expected this. Indeed, they would probably have been disappointed if events had proceeded otherwise. There was no fear, no hasty debate about whether they should kill him immediately. Instead, one of the Orcs gave a shout in its ugly language, and two more Orcs appeared in the doorway. These were larger, and had to duck to get through the doorway. Even inside the room, they were hunched over.

Each of the two circled around to a different side of the room, approaching Riker from opposite directions. Riker, still winded from the last Orc's attack, never got a chance to try the same move on these two. One kicked him in the chest, and, while he was still gasping for air, each grabbed one of his arms.

One of the smaller Orcs crept forward. Certain at last that their prisoner was subdued, the Orc unchained Riker's wrists. The small Orc gave a grunt – or something that sounded no more intelligent than a grunt – and the two larger ones forced Riker's arms behind his back. The smaller one fastened them together again – this time by a much shorter chain.

Riker thrashed about pointlessly as the Orcs dragged him to a chain that hung down from the ceiling. There was a soft click as the two chains were linked together. The small Orc nodded to the larger ones, who released Riker, and all three stepped back.

The other smaller Orc turned a crank, and the chain that ran to the ceiling grew taut. Slowly, Riker's wrists were pulled higher and higher behind his back, drawing him towards the ceiling. Soon, he was kneeling, and, still, the crank turned. His feet left the floor. His wrists touched the ceiling. His shoulders ached but held him in position, hunched forward, looking down at the ground while his legs dangled down beneath him.

The smaller Orc took two of the chains that seemed to sprout up out of the floor and attached one to each of Riker's ankles. A different crank pulled these taut, and then a little tighter. Riker at last cried out as the stabbing pain in his legs matched the strain on his shoulders. The Orc looked up, satisfied, and the two larger brutes and one of the smaller ones left, taking the dead Orc's body with them, leaving only the small one to turn the cranks.

And, every few minutes, it did so, pulling a little tighter just as Riker's shoulders had adjusted to the new strain. Pain shot up from his legs with each new turn of the crank, and, each time, he was pulled a little lower.

Then, at last, with one final turn of the crank, one of his shoulders gave way. Bearing the strain alone, the other quickly dislocated, as well. Riker gasped in pain, trying desperately not to give the Orc the satisfaction of a scream. The Orc simply gave a call that Riker could guess translated roughly as, "We're ready."

The other small Orc entered, a whip in hand. The Orc with the crank lowered Riker slowly to his knees. The other unchained Riker's wrists, and his arms dropped limply to his sides as he sank forward onto the floor. Laughing heartily, the Orc chained Riker's wrists together in front of him once more, and the crank once again dragged him up until his hands touched the ceiling. Riker tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't obey, so he was left dangling, halfway between standing and kneeling, pain coursing through his shoulders as they were forced to support his weight.

Slowly, savoring his power, the Orc uncoiled the whip, then circled around behind Riker. The whip struck with a crack, and Riker cried out in pain and surprise. Small, sharp spikes of metal hung at the end of the whip. Not enough to dig too deep, not enough to risk killing him too quickly. Yet enough to pierce the flesh, enough to leave a painful cut, enough to draw a scream as the whip was pulled back and the spikes ripped out.

Again the Orc struck, and again. With each strike, the other Orc turned the crank just a little, slowly lowering Riker to the floor. Perhaps this was their way of counting. A way to keep them from getting carried away and possibly risking the prisoner's life. But the fact that they wouldn't kill him – not yet, anyway – was small consolation as the spikes tore into his back, sometimes lashing around to his sides and chest.

Lower and lower he dropped, until he was lying face-down on the floor, the whip still digging cruelly into his back. But, sure enough, as the chain was lowered one last time and his wrists touched the floor, the whip stopped. The Orcs, no longer cautious, stepped forward and finally unchained him, leaving him helpless, bleeding, and in terrible pain.

Riker clenched his teeth to keep himself from screaming. It was over. For a while, at least. And the Orcs had never asked him a single question. They knew better. They would get no answers yet. They would wait until they had broken him. Then he would tell them everything.

Riker closed his eyes. That wouldn't happen. He had no delusions that he would be able to hold out indefinitely, but it was only a matter of days. It was this thought that he took with him as the pain and exhaustion drew him into an uneasy sleep.


	34. Fire and Sword

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Four<br>****Fire and Sword**

It was the heat that woke him, after what seemed like only a few minutes of rest. The pain set in a few seconds later – a deep, searing pain throughout his back. He was lying face-up, he realized, and tried for a moment to roll over, but a sharp, stabbing pain in his arms and legs reminded him that he wasn't in any condition to move.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. The room was different. Larger. The ceiling was higher, and, all around the room, lining the walls, Orcs stood. Waiting. Waiting for orders. Or simply waiting for him to be regain consciousness enough to feel pain. Riker closed his eyes, trying to breathe, shivering with fear despite the heat.

A sharp kick to his ribs forced Riker's eyes open again, and he found himself staring up into the eyes of at least a dozen Orcs. Some held whips, some held clubs, while others bore no weapons except their own claws. Another kick rolled him over onto his side. A club came down hard against his arm. A whip curled around his leg. Riker cried out in pain, unable to move even enough to use his arms to shield his head and neck. An Orc's claws slashed across his cheek. Another tore out a clump of his hair. Again he was rolled over, and closed his eyes just as a clawed hand swiped across his face. He didn't dare open them again.

Blood dripped into his mouth. The floor around him grew wet and warm. Suddenly, there was a shout, and the pain stopped for a second. Then two. Just as he was beginning to think that maybe they thought he had lost consciousness, he felt a clawed hand close around each of his wrists, and he was dragged across the floor.

The air grew hotter. Riker tried desperately to yank his arms free, but it was useless. Chains snapped around his wrists and ankles, and he was lifted off the ground. Cautiously, he opened an eye, and immediately wished he hadn't. The heat in the room came from a pit of coals in one corner, a pit that was now blazing as the Orcs lowered him slowly towards it. Riker's eyes snapped shut, but that wasn't enough to shield him from the pain as he was lowered so that his chest nearly touched the coals. It was all he could do to hold his head up, to keep his face from being smothered in the coals. There was a sickening sizzling noise as blood dripped onto the fire

After what seemed like an eternity, he was at last raised a little, but was given no time to recover. Some sort of burning, fiery liquid was poured over his back, seeping into every cut, every gash. Cranks turned, slowly turning his body, so that now he lay face-up, with the liquid flowing over his chest, stinging where the coals had burned him. Then he was lowered once more, this time directly onto the coals. Riker thrashed as much as he was able, but it did no good. He could feel his hair and what remained of his clothes burning. He could smell his own skin starting to burn as they finally lifted him. Rough hands unchained him, and he was dragged once more across the room, and dropped onto his back, burned, broken, and helpless.

Silence. Silence except for the sound of feet. They were leaving. At last, Riker dared to open his eyes. Only one Orc remained. He was larger, with a scar running down the side of his face. He eyed Riker silently, gazing down at his prisoner as if trying to decide whether he was really worth the effort.

Riker clenched his teeth, stopping any more screams from escaping. He met the Orc's gaze defiantly – or, at least, with what he hoped was a look of defiance, rather than agony and terror. The Orc nodded, satisfied. Then, in a low, gravelly voice, he asked, "Who are you?"

Riker drew a deep breath, bracing himself. The Orc had decided he was ready. Weak enough. Broken down enough. Now the real interrogation would begin.

After a moment of silence, the Orc lifted a cup. An incentive, perhaps, Riker thought – a reward if he decided to cooperate. Then the Orc hunched down and gripped Riker's head, one of its clawed hands holding Riker's right eye open.

Too late, Riker realized what was happening. He tried to close his eye, but the Orc's claws held his eyelids firmly apart. The Orc lowered his cup close to Riker's face and poured. All thought of pride and defiance forgotten, Riker screamed as the liquid fell into his eye, a liquid that Riker could only guess was some sort of acid. At last, the large Orc stopped pouring and released him. Riker cried out in agony, squeezing his eyes shut though he knew it would do no good now.

Clawed hands gripped his head again, but his other eye was not opened. Instead, a sudden pain surrounded his right eye, deeper and deeper, burning into his flesh. Riker opened his left eye. A metal rod pressed against his face. At last, it was drawn away, and Riker could see on the end a brand, a glowing red eye, nearly a circle, with a slit down the center like the eye of a cat, perhaps.

The Orc tossed the rod aside, then gripped Riker's head again, turning it so Riker's left eye was staring straight up at him. Riker's vision was hazy with pain, but he caught the Orc's gaze, receiving the unspoken message. No matter who he was, no matter where he was from, no matter why he was important, he was now Sauron's prisoner. Here in the dungeons of Barad-dur, he would die, but not before he had revealed all that he knew.

As Riker's mind sank into darkness, he could hear a voice in his head, almost like an echo. "They will find us. They will take the Ring. And you – you will beg for death before the end."

Riker closed his eyes. Brooke's words of warning had been directed at Wesley. Instead, it was to be his fate. To be a prisoner. Beaten. Tortured. Helpless. To beg for death, perhaps, before the end.

Riker's head dropped back limply as the Orc released him. The Orcs didn't realize. They didn't know their days were numbered. Every day – every hour – Frodo drew closer and closer to Mount Doom. Then it would end, whether he was still alive or not. Then it would end.

* * *

><p>Wesley shivered as he stumbled forward in the dark, struggling to keep his eyes open, though it did him little good. He couldn't see the path, anyway, and the sight of Mount Doom in the distance was not a comforting one.<p>

He should have been anxious to get there. Instead, he was dreading it, though he couldn't explain why. It marked the end of his journey. Their return to the _Enterprise_. Yet there was something darkly ominous about the towering figure still far ahead. Once it came right down to it, it was not a place anyone would _want _to go. And, yet, each tired footstep brought him closer.

He remembered Riker's instruction to stop and rest when he needed it. He certainly needed it. His legs were heavy with a long day's – or night's – walk. With each step, the Ring seemed to grow heavier in his pocket, until, at last, fearing his trousers would fall down from the weight, he placed it around his neck, instead. On he trudged, and, still, the mountain didn't seem any closer.

He wanted to stop. To rest. But how could he rest here, with no cover except for a few odd boulders? Some were big enough, but he didn't know which side to hide on. Which direction would the Orcs come from, if they found him?

At last, he collapsed beside one of the large boulders, so that he lay between it and Mount Doom. If the Orcs were coming from that direction, they would find him, anyway, whether he kept moving or rested for a while. It made sense. But he still felt uneasy as he sat down and opened his pack. He ate and drank a little, then lay down, trying to convince his body to sleep.

It was a dream that woke him. As clearly as if it were real, he could see Commander Riker lying on the floor of some cell. An Orc was coming at him with a whip. Despite Riker's cries to him to stay hidden, Wesley sprang in front of the Orc and drew his sword.

The whip came down, and Wesley woke with a start, immediately drawing his sword. That sudden, instinctive movement saved him, for, at that moment, something sprang down from the top of the boulder. Wesley held his sword up, shielding himself. Something hit it, then sprang away with a yelp of pain. Wesley scrambled to his feet, but, whatever it was, it was gone. His hand flew to the chain around his neck, and he sighed with relief to find that the Ring was still there.

Wesley stared at the blade. Not blue. It let off a very faint glow, but perhaps it always would in Mordor. Orcs were always bound to be close. But his attacker had been no Orc.

Wesley sheathed Sting but kept his hand on the hilt. Whatever it was, it might come back. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't let his guard down, even for a moment. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he set out again. If he wasn't going to sleep, he might as well make a little progress.

He could think of only one thing his attacker could have been. But that was impossible, he told himself as the trudged on toward the mountain. Riker had said Gollum wouldn't have been able to keep up with the horses. But perhaps he'd had some help.

Wesley gripped his sword. Q, interfering once again. His plan to make Wesley suspicious of Riker had obviously failed to provide any substantial entertainment, so Gollum must be his last effort to thwart their plans. "It won't work, Q," Wesley growled quietly. "I won't let you win."

The Ring seemed to grow hotter in his hand – strange, how he hadn't noticed that he had reached for it. He could feel, somehow, a deep, throbbing power. Here, in the land of Its master, Its will was stronger.

How strong? Wesley fingered It silently, wondering. Q had given tremendous power to Middle-Earth. Magical spells to light a fire or enslave a mind. Beings older than the human race. Words with enough power – enough meaning – to frighten away the Black Riders. Did the Ring have power, too? And, if Q had bound himself to the rules of the game, in the right hands, could the Ring destroy him?

Wesley pushed the thought from his mind. If there was such a power, it would certainly not be with him wielding it. He was a Hobbit, not a Wizard or an Elf. He simply didn't have the strength.

Besides, he had his orders. Destroy the Ring. But, if the Orcs came, if it came to a choice between them finding It and him using It, he wondered, what would they have him do? Using It, could he fight his way through Mordor? Could he force his way to the Mountain to destroy It?

And, then, if he made it that far, would he still be able to rid himself of It?


	35. In Darkness Buried Deep

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, it's still not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Five<br>****In Darkness Buried Deep**

Back in the small, cold, damp cell, the Orc waited patiently for the prisoner to awake. They were alone. This prisoner was not a threat. It lay on the floor before him, unbound but utterly helpless. Its limbs were broken and useless, its body burned and torn. What remained of its trousers – its only covering – was damp with blood and sweat and its own waste. Most of its hair had been burned away, its right eye eaten away by the acid, the flesh around it branded with the Eye.

As soon as it awoke, the Orc's work would begin. It would be long – he had seen it in this one's eyes. It would be days. Weeks, perhaps. But he would wait. It would talk. They all did, in the end. Broken and mangled beyond all recognition, they all talked. And then, if there was no other use for them, they died.

At last, it stirred. Opened its eyes – eyes that revealed its pain. It tried to scream, but its throat was too dry.

The Orc didn't care about screams. He heard them enough. Unlike the smaller, cowardly ones, he didn't feed off his victims' terror. But his job _did_ require that the prisoner be able to speak. It probably wouldn't today. Not yet. Still, he poured some water down its throat.

The prisoner followed the Orc with its good eye as the Orc opened a metal chest. He removed a knife and a pair of pliers. He crossed to the prisoner's blind side. Then he asked his question. The first question he would receive an answer to: "Who are you?"

Silence. Exactly what he expected. Gripping the prisoner's thumb in one claw and the knife in the other, the Orc slowly forced the blade beneath the prisoner's nail, then forced one end of the pliers beside it. The other end of the pliers clamped down, and the Orc gave a yank.

Terror. Anger. Excruciating pain. All of these were present in the prisoner's scream. But not defeat. Not surrender. Not yet. "Who are you?" the Orc asked, his voice even, detached. Only silence. So he went on to the next finger.

He finished the right hand. He would save the left for later, when the thought of this first pain had dimmed and faded from its mind. Then – and only then – would he revive it.

When he returned, the prisoner had mastered its pain and was silent. The Orc rolled it over onto its chest, its face pressed against the stone floor. Slowly, deliberately – he had no need of haste – he fastened a chain around each of the prisoner's wrists and ankles, then turned a crank and raised its body up to about half his height off the floor, its arms and legs stretched apart.

The Orc removed a whip from his belt. "Who are you?" Silence. He swung. The metal bits dug into the prisoner's skin. The Orc drew the whip back, ripping metal through flesh, leaving long, bleeding cuts across the prisoner's back.

The prisoner braced itself for more. Instead, the Orc chose a bottle of liquid and poured it into each of the cuts. It served two purposes. It stung terribly – the prisoner cried out in pain and surprise. It would also prevent the wounds from bleeding too much.

After several more lashes to the prisoner's back, the Orc moved on to its legs. Halfway down these, the prisoner lost consciousness. The Orc left, after lowering the prisoner's head halfway to the floor, allowing the blood to flow.

He left orders for the prisoner to be woken every half hour and beaten, but not seriously harmed. Then he left to rest.

When the Orc returned several hours later, the prisoner still hung helplessly from its chains, badly bruised but not permanently damaged from its beatings. An empty bowl nearby revealed that it had recently been given water. Satisfied, the Orc lowered it to the floor. It groaned softly, its eyes closed, still trying to convince itself that this was a nightmare.

"Who are you?" One by one, each of the fingernails on its left hand were ripped off.

"Who are you?" As it hung suspended by its wrists, a thin blade traced across its back.

"Who are you?" Its beard was burned away, leaving its skin raw and oozing.

"Who are you?" The prisoner followed the Orc with its good eye as he placed one of its fingers firmly between two metal blocks, held together by long screws. It cried out in agony as the screws were slowly tightened, crushing the bones.

"Who are you?" Whips tore deep into its flesh. Burning rods dug into the soles of its feet. Clubs cracked against its limbs and chest.

"Who are you?" Toes were crushed, the nails ripped away. Bones snapped out of joint, only to be replaced when it would cause the most pain. Blood dripped onto the floor, but not enough – never enough – to kill it.

Wavering screams alerted the Orc that the prisoner was losing consciousness. The Orc stared down into its good eye. "Who are you?"

Nothing. Not yet. But he was closer. The defiance in the prisoner's eye was fading, slowly replaced by a plea. There was only a faint glint of the look now, but he was certain. He had seen it enough. They all wanted the same thing, in the end. They wanted the pain to stop. But now there was only one escape. Life meant pain, and death was the only release.

The Orc watched as the prisoner's eyes closed, revealing the burn that ran down across the lid of its right eye. The screaming stopped abruptly as the prisoner's limbs went limp in their chains.

"Who are you?" He left the prisoner chained for hours, hanging from the ceiling with its limbs out of place, stopping only when it lost consciousness.

"Who are you?" It lay on the floor, unable to defend itself, unable to shield itself from whip and claw, knife and club. Its face was torn and covered in blood, but the Orc always left the left eye intact. He wanted it to see, wanted it to fear the sight of him. And it did. Every time he returned, the fear grew, and the prisoner's plea became clearer in its eye.

"Who are you?" Sudden jolts left it gasping, long tortures left its throat dry with screaming. Each time he entered the room, the Orc found it crying silently. Slowly, so slowly, it was losing control of itself.

"Who are you?" Hour after hour. Scream after scream. Tortures interrupted only when it lost consciousness. Still, it said nothing. And still the Orc waited patiently.

Hanging from the ceiling by its four limbs bound together behind its back, the prisoner at last regained consciousness. The Orc dropped it sharply to the floor, then unchained it and rolled it over so that it lay face-up in front of him. It was time to show the prisoner how weak it had become.

The Orc knelt down and forced the prisoner's shoulders back into place, sending a series of hoarse screams echoing across the room. He filled a shallow bowl with water and placed it in the far corner of the room. Then he chose a whip from the chest. It was an ordinary whip – no metal, no spikes on the end. It would not dig too deep, only aggravate the wounds that already covered the prisoner's body. The Orc uncoiled his whip, then stood by the prisoner, waiting.

It didn't understand. Or perhaps it did, and didn't want to give the Orc the pleasure of seeing it crawl across the room. But this wasn't about pleasure. It wasn't for the Orc's benefit. It was for the prisoner's, so it would understand what it had been reduced to. The Orc raised his whip and struck the prisoner's chest. "Crawl." He struck again, and again, until, fumbling clumsily with arms it was now unaccustomed to using, it managed to roll over onto its chest.

The Orc struck again, and, slowly, painfully, the prisoner inched forward. Each time it stopped to catch its breath or rest its limbs, the whip struck. Closer it crept, wriggling almost like a snake, but so much slower. Slowly, so slowly, it struggled towards its goal.

* * *

><p>Wesley blinked hard, desperate to keep his eyes open. What good it was doing, he didn't really know; it was still pitch black. But it kept him awake, at least, and that much, he knew, was necessary. So he kept blinking, kept his hand on his sword-hilt, and staggered forward in the darkness.<p>

Then he heard them, ahead of him in the shadows. Orc voices, certainly. He wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying, or how many of them there were, but it was enough to make him stop short. They couldn't be too far ahead.

As quietly as he could, Wesley backtracked to a large boulder and slipped behind it. There he sat down, the terror quite enough to keep him wide awake. He could wait. Wait until they found him. Until it was clear that there was no other choice.

Then he would use the Ring.

* * *

><p>Picard, Worf, Troi, Dr. Crusher, O' Brien, and Faramir sat around a small fire. They had stopped to rest for the night – if, indeed, it was night at all. They had ridden hard, and the soldiers were grateful for a rest. As Picard looked around, however, he could see that Worf seemed even more tense than normal. Something was bothering him. Faramir, too, seemed uneasy, every now and then glancing off to the east. Faramir's mood, he couldn't judge entirely, but Worf, certainly, was not frightened or nervous. Something else was on his mind.<p>

"Mithrandir," Faramir said at last, softly, with the same respect – reverence, almost – that always seemed to accompany the name. "Something is wrong. The night is too still, too quiet. I fear the Enemy is not stirring."

Picard studied Faramir for a moment. It was one thing to trust the young man to give them directions or guide them to the Black Gate. But this was a feeling. Half observation of the weather and half pure intuition. His own instincts, or those of his crew, he could rely on. This was different.

Then Worf spoke – and, to Picard's surprise, addressed Faramir directly. "I feel it, as well. I did not recognize it because I did not sense a threat."

"Instead, a disturbing lack of one," Faramir agreed.

"Yes." Worf turned to Picard. "By now, the Enemy is aware that we are coming. He sees that we are riding to his very doorstep. Yet he does nothing. His armies are not moving."

Picard nodded slowly. "We're not a great enough threat." He looked around. "Suggestions?"

"We should use the Palantir," O' Brien offered without hesitation. "That's why we brought it, after all – to use in case not enough of us survived to pose a threat. We lost Eomer and Eowyn. I'd say that qualifies. If one of us can use this thing, provide Sauron with an illusion of strength, that might be enough to get his army moving."

"Or it might get us all killed," Dr. Crusher pointed out. "What if Sauron doesn't buy it? He might realize this whole thing is a distraction."

"It's worth the risk," Faramir said firmly, his voice grave. "There is only one reason we are here, riding to what will probably be our deaths at the Black Gate. It is our task to provide a diversion, and we must do everything in our power to pose as great a threat as we can." He turned to Picard. "I believe it is no longer a question of whether or not we should use this thing, but, rather, of _who_ should be the one to use it."

He was right. If Wesley didn't destroy the Ring, they were all dead. All of them – even Geordi and Data back in Gondor, for, if he found the Ring, Sauron would be unstoppable. Picard looked at Faramir, finally understanding what Brooke had known from the start. "Yes. You are right, Faramir. The Quest must be completed, no matter the cost. One of us must use the Palantir. You said it was a question of whom. Are you volunteering?"

Faramir thought it over for a moment before answering. "Boromir would have. And he would not have suffered anyone to prevent him, unless, perhaps, it were Aragorn. For surely this is one of the Seeing Stones of the Kings of Old, and only the King of Gondor may use it by right. But the King is not here. Boromir would have insisted that he, as the Steward's son, had claim to it if any of us did. And he would have relished the chance to test his strength against the will of the Enemy."

Picard nodded his agreement. Brooke would have liked nothing better than the chance to set her will against Sauron's. And perhaps her stubbornness would have been enough to save her. But did her fictional brother have that strength? "I did not ask what Boromir would have done," Picard said firmly, meeting Faramir's gaze. "Are _you_ volunteering?"

Faramir's eyes never left Picard's. "I am not my brother, Mithrandir. I will not insist that you allow me to try. I trust your wisdom. If you believe that I am the best choice to face the Enemy … then I am willing."

Picard glanced around the circle. Faramir spoke for all of them, it seemed. None of them were particularly eager to use the Palantir. But each was willing to try, if he gave the word. The others were waiting for their captain to make the decision. It was good to know that Faramir was on the same page. An honorary member of the crew.

The possibilities began running through his mind. Troi's empathic abilities disqualified her. As much as it might help to know what the Enemy was thinking, to be constantly bombarded with Sauron's thoughts was the last thing the user of the Palantir would need. It would be a distraction, a risk they could not afford.

Dr. Crusher had extra incentive to try. They were doing this to keep her son safe. But that also made her a dangerous choice. Wesley would almost certainly be on her mind, and one slip, one word, one thought could reveal their plan.

Both Worf and O' Brien were reasonable choices. Worf had the strength, the discipline of a warrior. He was stubborn. Strong-willed. Sauron could kill him, and he still wouldn't reveal anything. O' Brien had shown courage and determination beyond what Picard had known he possessed. And he had made a connection to Middle-Earth that continued to elude the rest of the _Enterprise _crew, except maybe Riker. He was possibly the best choice to harness the Palantir's power.

But, while they were both good choices, neither Gimli nor Hama seemed an ideal choice. Gimli was a Dwarf. Picard didn't know what the Dwarves were doing at the moment, but it didn't seem to have anything to do with what was going on at the Black Gate. As for Hama's people, many of them were there, but their King was not. They had already fought their battle for survival. If they failed here, another would follow as Sauron's armies spread. But this was not their stand. It was Gondor's.

Which brought him back to Faramir. But was that even an option? How could he trust their fate to a fictional character? He knew his crew's strengths and weaknesses; he could judge how each of them might fare against Sauron. How could he predict Faramir's response?

And, yet, he could. He had watched Faramir follow Riker unquestioningly through the Paths of the Dead. He had seen Faramir both mourn and accept his brother's death. Faramir had defied his own father to follow Riker's orders. And Faramir had stepped between Picard and a Nazgul, ready to defend him with his life. He was consistent. Loyal. And he was willing to sacrifice himself if it meant completing what he had set out to do, just as Brooke had. Unlike they were, and yet also much akin.

Picard knew the other choice. He could use the Palantir himself. Before, he had been unprepared. Now, he knew what to expect from the stone. Perhaps that would be enough. But how could he be certain?

Q had made sure the Palantir ended up with Faramir. But had he done so hoping that Farmair would use it himself? Or knowing that Faramir would give it to Picard? Or maybe he had something else in mind…

At last, Picard rose. "Sam, Legolas, Gimli, Hama, remain here. Faramir, come with me. We will face the Enemy together."


	36. Into the Fire

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not my own. Not my Precioussssss. I'm one of the tricksy Hobbitses who stole it from them ... Well, borrowed it, along with a big blue box; I was always going to take it back. Whoops, jumping sci-fi shows there. Okay, back to Middle-Earth...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Six<br>****Into the Fire**

"Are you ready?"

Picard and Faramir stood facing each other about a stone's throw away from the rest of the company. Picard's staff leaned against a large boulder, providing a little light. He held the Palantir, still wrapped tightly in its cloth.

"Yes." Faramir's face was pale in the darkness, but his voice was steady. He adjusted his sling and took a step closer, bracing himself.

Picard pulled the cloth carefully away from the top of the Palantir. Together, he and Faramir each placed a hand on the sphere.

A light appeared, glowing like a fire. It filled the Palantir, then seemed to move outwards, blocking out everything else. Faramir faded from Picard's sight as the flames spread. Closer and closer they came, hotter and hotter.

And Picard let the fire come. Let the enemy make the first move. Then, when he was nearly surrounded, he raised his staff – somehow in his hand when he needed it. In a flash of light, he was surrounded by brilliant white. Flames lapped at his shield. Fire rained down, the ash turning his robes a deep grey. But the fire itself couldn't reach him.

Here, he knew, he could hold out indefinitely. But he also knew he had to do more than that. Sauron would not be impressed by a wizard merely standing his ground. He raised his staff again to strike out at the fire, but no more light came. Again, he tried, and nothing happened. It was as useless as when he had tried to light the wood on Caradhras.

Then he heard a voice calling a name. Calling _his_ name. "Mithrandir!"

Faramir was on his knees in the fire a short distance away, trying to shield his face from the flames. As Picard watched, he sank to the ground in pain, thrashing about weakly in an effort to smother the flames that lapped at his clothes and flesh. "Mithrandir!" he cried, but said nothing else, though Picard knew that Sauron was questioning him. "Mithrandir!"

Picard didn't think. He raised his staff, and a ray of light burst forth into the flames, scattering them. One light after another, he tore away at the fire, until Faramir was safely within his protective light. The ash fell away from his robes, leaving them a pure, shining white. Picard spread his arms wide, addressing the remaining fire with words that came to him unbidden. "I am Gandalf the White! And this—" He raised his staff. "—_this_ is the turn of the tide!"

With one last flash, the fire disappeared. He and Faramir were still standing in the darkness. Faramir dropped to his knees – from exhaustion or perhaps pain, Picard assumed at first, but then he realized that it was awe. Looking down, he saw that his clothes and even his skin shone with a pure white light. Beside him, his staff, too, let off a brilliant glow. Faramir simply stared in speechless wonder.

"Rise, Faramir," Picard said kindly. "There is still work to be done."

Faramir obeyed immediately, rising and placing his hand on the Palantir. No fire this time – only an image in the darkness. Riker. And yet not Riker. At the same time, Picard saw both Riker and Aragorn. Both his First Officer and the King of Gondor. Both what he knew he should see and what Gandalf would have seen.

Riker lay on the floor of a cell, using his arms to drag himself slowly forward along the stone floor. He stopped, exhausted. An Orc struck him with a whip. His back was already torn and bloody, but the Orc struck again, and again, until Riker resumed his slow, painful progress.

Picard gripped the Palantir tightly, almost wishing that he _did_ have the Ring. Then he could tear Barad-dur down stone by stone. Perhaps it wasn't too late to save Riker. Then Sauron would pay, for Picard knew in his heart that Riker was only the most recent of many victims, tortured and mutilated within his Dark Tower. Torn and beaten and humiliated, until, at last, robbed of both dignity and hope, they begged for the mercy of death. But death was granted only slowly, painfully. Tortures continued long after the Dark Lord had learned all his victims could tell. Then, and only then, useless to him and utterly helpless, then, at last, they were allowed to die.

There was a quiet surge of will, and the image faded. Picard looked up at Faramir. "He is not the first," Faramir said quietly, as if he had guessed – or perhaps shared – Picard's thoughts. "But he _will_ be the last, Mithrandir. But we must be patient. The Enemy is trying to provoke us into acting before we are fully prepared. We must not give him that advantage."

Picard nodded. Faramir was right. But, though the image had faded from the Palantir, he could not will it from his mind. He could still see Aragorn – Riker – dragging himself along the floor, too weak even to cry out in pain. He could still hear the silent screams of so many victims who had been tortured in that very cell. It didn't matter – not any more – that they weren't real. Riker was real, and he spoke for them all.

"Mithrandir." Faramir's voice shook him from his thoughts, and Picard realized why he had asked the young man to join him. Faramir had taken his hand from the Palantir. "It would be unwise to search for Frodo," he continued, his voice even and calm, though Picard knew his heart was torn by what they had witnessed. "The Enemy might still perceive our actions. But perhaps we can find the other Halflings – Merry and Pippin."

Geordi. Data. He had nearly forgotten. Picard nodded, and Faramir placed his hand on the sphere. For a few moments, images faded in and out of view. Most places, he didn't recognize, but a few he knew. Far away in Rivendell, Elrond paced back and forth across a balcony. In Lothlorien, Guinan sat in council with Haldir and several other captains, preparing for an attack. Orcs marched north and west along the Anduin towards Lorien's borders.

Forests and plains. Mountains and rivers. Elves and Dwarves and Men. All of these faded in and out of sight as Faramir searched. Orcs gathered in Osgiliath. With them came trolls and larger, elephant-like creatures. Armies of men arrived from the south.

Minas Tirith. There, on a high balcony, stood Geordi, with Eowyn at his side. "He's safe," Faramir assured him, sounding far more relieved than Picard had expected. "Unless they were to ride to Rohan or to Rivendell, or to return to their own land, the White City is the safest haven for them now. And if it falls, I fear no other refuge will stand."

Picard nodded. Brooke had said something similar more than once. He had always wondered if she was simply trying to stay in character, to echo Boromir's love for his own city. Now, Picard knew, she had believed it. Meant it fully not only as Boromir, but also as herself. She had known Gondor's importance, the role it would play in the coming events. Apparently, it was an insight that ran in the family.

Both Geordi and Eowyn were staring off towards the east in wonder, watching the sunrise. The sunrise! Picard's gaze shot up from the Palantir. Indeed, the light was growing in the east. The darkness had at last been broken. He looked at Faramir, who nodded. This was their doing. _His _doing. Gandalf's power had split the shadows, allowing the dawn to break at last.

Picard turned back to the Palantir. Geordi was safe. As safe as he could be, at least. But where was Data?

As if Faramir had heard him, the image changed. Data stood in a small, upper room in the Tower of Ecthalion, gazing into a Palantir. But he was not alone.

"I see you found my gift," Q said with a smile. "Well done, Mithrandir. Well done, Faramir. I'm proud of both of you."

Then, without another word, the Palantir went dark. Picard removed his hand, and Faramir followed. "That is all we will see, I suppose," Picard reasoned. "But it is enough."

Faramir nodded gravely as Picard wrapped the Palantir in its cloth. "Yes. It is enough. The Enemy knows now that we have power far beyond what he had believed. We proved that we are a threat to him. Now he will deal with that threat."

"Yes," Picard agreed. "Now he will deal with us."

* * *

><p>Wesley froze. The Orcs were in a panic. Terrified. Of what, he was surprised to find he had a guess. The sun was rising. Orcs detested sunlight.<p>

But why now? Why would the sun finally be able to break through the darkness? Something – some powerful force – had challenged Sauron. And won? Perhaps.

Frantic, the Orcs scattered. Without thinking, Wesley threw his cloak over himself, covering his body. Orcs ran past, never noticing. Shocked, Wesley realized he was safe. But he couldn't risk continuing. He would have to wait.

* * *

><p>Crack. Again, the whip struck. Riker longed to cry out in pain, but his throat was too dry. Again, he dragged himself forward. Inch after inch. Slowly. So slowly. At last, the bowl was within reach. Too weak to drag himself any further, he pressed the bowl between his palms and pulled it closer. Unable to lift it in his mangled hands, he simply plunged his face into the water, lapping it up like a dog, not caring that it was warm and dirty, or that it tasted foul.<p>

Then the door opened. An Orc outside gave a shout. The Orc with the whip grew tense. It kicked the bowl, nearly empty now, up into Riker's face, spilling what remained. Then it turned and left, slamming the door behind it.

Riker lay on the floor, exhausted. It had stopped. It didn't matter why, or for how long. His tormentor was gone. Riker closed his eyes, breathing hard, willing his body to rest, if only for a moment. Maybe even to sleep.

Sleep did come, and, with it, a dream. He lay on the floor of his cell. Surrounded. But not by Orcs. Men and Elves he had never seen before, and yet somehow knew. Elendil, High King of Gondor. Isildur and Anarion, his sons. Gil-Galad. Others from older tales and legends. Luthien and Beren, his ancestors. Finrod Felagund, the Elven king who had given his life to save Beren while both were captives of Sauron in his ancient tower. Barahir. Earendil and Elwing. Turin. Fingolfin. Feanor. Others whose names Riker had never heard, but whose stories Aragorn knew by heart.

And there, standing before him among the heroes of old, was Brooke. Riker marveled to see her in such company, but she herself appeared at ease with these great heroes. Boromir of Gondor had earned a place among them.

Brooke stepped forward and knelt by Riker's side. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He was too weak. Brooke nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Onen i-estel Edain," she said quietly, meeting his gaze. "Ú-chebin estel anim."

Then he awoke. "Onen i-estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim," he repeated. The words were familiar. He couldn't place the exact translation, but he knew full well what they meant. What he had to do. What he had come here to do.

Helpless and alone in the Tower of Barad-dur, he could do what Gandalf could not. What Faramir and Eomer could not. They could only arouse Sauron's suspicion. He could confirm it. He could guarantee Frodo safe passage across Mordor.

Slowly, Riker opened his eyes. "Ú-chebin estel anim," he whispered. Even as he spoke the words, the door opened.

A dozen Orcs entered, led by the one with the scarred face. "Who are you?" the scarred one demanded, rolling Riker over onto his back, forcing him to look up. But the question was different. There was a tinge of fear in the Orc's voice. Only a small hint, but it was enough.

Riker put on his best poker face and forced a smug – arrogant, he hoped – smile. "Oh, I think you know. And your master knows, too. He knows the end is near. Who am I? I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's heir and King of Gondor. And I come to Mordor, to the very heart of your master's land, bearing tidings of doom. Even now, a host marches from Minas Tirith to your Black Gate, bearing the Weapon of Sauron's making. It will be the Weapon of his demise. Sauron will perish, and you with him, cowering in fear in this dark fortress."

"And what of you?" the scarred one growled.

Riker laughed, though laughing shot pain like lightning through his chest. "What of me? Oh, you fools. Do you suppose that you have any sort of power over me? Can you do anything to me that the power of this mighty Weapon cannot undo? Do you believe that, if you were to kill me, It could not bring me back? It has already done so once. Do you suppose I fear death? I have already passed through death and darkness, and will do so again, if that is what is required of me. But Death may not be so gracious to you."

They left. And he laughed. As long as he thought they might still hear, he laughed. Then he closed his eyes, and consciousness left him.

* * *

><p>Wesley did his best to hold absolutely still. Orcs scattered this way and that, as if not quite sure what to do with themselves. Wesley gripped Sting's hilt tightly in one hand, the Ring in the other. In this chaos, it was only a matter of time before one of the Orcs tripped over him and realized he was far too soft to be a rock.<p>

Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting shriek overhead. A deep black shape passed across the sky. Wesley closed his eyes, clutching the Ring tighter. A Nazgul. It had come for him.

But, instead of swooping down, it flew back north where it had come from, and the Orcs followed quickly. They had been summoned.

First the light. And now the Orcs were gathering. The others were trying to clear his path. But at what cost? Wesley shuddered. The Nazgul and the Orcs were on their way to battle. A battle they would win.

Wesley waited until he could no longer hear the Orcs, then waited a little longer just to be sure. At last, he stood up. His legs ached. His eyelids drooped. But he had to keep going. The _Enterprise _crew was hopelessly outnumbered. They would not achieve victory through strength of arms.

Not for themselves. But they had given him a chance. Slowly, Wesley made his way towards Mount Doom, which loomed tall and dark in the distance. He still had a chance.

* * *

><p>How long the Orcs left him there, alone, Riker couldn't tell. Occasionally, one or another of the smaller Orcs would come and beat him with a club, or chain him up and whip him, just to make sure he never got too much rest. But no questions were asked. Sometimes, they brought water. They were keeping him alive. Waiting, perhaps, for instructions. For orders about precisely how they should kill him, now that he had told them what they needed to know.<p>

Or had he? Would they believe him? They hadn't rejected his story, and they weren't pressing him for the truth. But though it explained why Picard was leading an army to the Black Gate, it was a pretty weak explanation of why the King of Gondor had been trying to get into Mordor. Unless, of course, it were simply a show of strength. Proof that he was not afraid of what they could do. That he, not they, held the trump card. That the Ring could undo even death.

But was that even true? The idea had come to him on the spot, and he had been far too tired to argue with his instincts. Hopefully, he had sounded like he believed it, and, hopefully, that would be enough, because he didn't really know just how far the Ring's power would go, in the right hands.

But it wasn't in the right hands for that. Soon, it would be destroyed, and Sauron with it. With this thought, Riker forced a small smile, even as he hung by a chain from the ceiling, waiting for the Orcs to return. Soon – how soon, he didn't know, but soon – it would be over.

The door creaked open. Riker braced himself for another beating, but, instead, the Orcs lowered him to the floor and unchained him. Each took one of his arms, and they dragged him from the room, then down the hall. Up several flights of stairs. Then out into the night.

The night. But it wasn't the same darkness that had clouded the land before. He could even see a few stars as the Orcs dropped him, face-up, on the ground. They dealt him a few kicks, then backed away, and a large, dark shape approached.

An animal. But it wasn't the beast that frightened him. It was what rode upon it. As when he had been taken from Cirith Ungol, a shiver ran through his body. The beast stepped forward, clutched Riker in its claws, and lifted off.


	37. Estel

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Seven<br>****Estel**

Dawn. Wesley rubbed his eyes as he stared up at the slope in front of him. The night had brought him to the very foot of Mount Doom. Sitting down to rest, he ate a little, and drank. He had rationed his supplies well. There was enough, he reckoned, to last if he were to climb the mountain, hike back down, and then return for at least a day the way he had come.

But there wasn't going to be a return journey. So he drank a little extra, then replaced his supplies and flung the pack over his shoulder. Then he started up the mountain.

Riker had said that an old road wrapped around the mountain. So all he had to do was find it and follow it. It would lead him to the Cracks of Doom. Then it would end. All of it would end.

* * *

><p>Dawn. Geordi and Eowyn watched as a second sunrise filled the sky. The host in Osgiliath had advanced during the night, and, despite the sun, had begun a slow, steady march towards the City. Perhaps they hoped to reach it by nightfall.<p>

Time had passed so strangely during the long night. Geordi couldn't place what day it was, or how far the others should be. Were they nearing the Black Gate? Still a day or two away? And Wesley and Riker – How close were they to Mount Doom? How long would the City have to hold if the Orcs attacked?

At last, Eowyn broke the silence. "When the darkness returned last night, I feared it might never lift again. But again it has passed, and dawn has returned. What does it mean, I wonder. Surely we would know if Sauron himself had been defeated.

"We would," Geordi agreed. And of course they would. If the Ring had been destroyed, he would be gone. For the first time, looking at Eowyn, he was saddened by that thought. He might disappear at any moment, without the chance to say good-bye.

"We would know," Geordi repeated. "But, still, we can take hope in this sign. Our Enemy is not as powerful, as invincible, as he would have us believe. And we are not as weak as he supposes. The darkness may return, but I believe it will always fade with the coming of the morning." He slipped his hand gently into Eowyn's. "In this hour, I do not believe that any darkness will endure."

* * *

><p>Dawn. Data and Q watched the sunrise from a window in Denethor's upper chamber. The Palantir lay on a table behind them.<p>

"I must leave soon," Data informed Q. "Lieutenant LaForge will be expecting me."

Q nodded. "You haven't told him you come here."

"I have not," Data admitted. "Much of what we have seen would disturb him. I saw no reason to trouble him with knowledge of events he cannot change."

Q smiled. "You can't change them, either, Pippin. And yet you keep coming back for more."

"I am not human," Data reminded Q. "I do not experience worry or anxiety."

"You don't think he's worried, anyway? Could the truth be worse than what he might assume?"

"Are you suggesting that I reveal the truth to Lieutenant LaForge?"

Q shrugged. "It makes no difference to me. It's simply an interesting side experiment, if you must know. Do you keep your fellow Halfling in the dark, or do you share with him the ghastly truth?"

Data processed that for a moment, then turned to go. "Thank you, Q. I will return shortly."

* * *

><p>Dawn. Picard mounted his horse once more, ready for the last leg of their journey. According to Faramir's best calculations, they would reach the Black Gate sometime in the afternoon. Hopefully, before they were all destroyed, Frodo would find his way up the mountain and drop the cursed Ring in the fire.<p>

Of course, he reminded himself, there was no guarantee. Wesley could have been delayed. They would know, Picard reasoned, if Sauron had the Ring. So Wesley had not yet been found and captured. But they could only hope that all had proceeded according to schedule.

At least one thing had. Riker had allowed himself to be captured in Cirith Ungol. Picard clenched his staff tightly, both the staff and the hand that held it shining brightly. He had never liked the plan. But Riker, who certainly liked it far less, had been unable to come up with a better idea.

Picard shook the thought from his mind. It was far too late to second-guess his choice. The pieces were all in place. The board was set. As Q had said once before, the hall was rented, the orchestra engaged. It was now time to see if they could dance.

Picard glanced over at his crew. Worf had already mounted. Troi and Dr. Crusher were repacking the last of the supplies. O' Brien rode back and forth, inspecting the men of Rohan. Faramir had already mounted, his sling removed though his arm was far from fully healed. A sling would only get in the way. They could tend to injuries later.

Later. If they survived, Picard reminded himself, he wouldn't have to deal with Faramir's injuries. Still, though he was only a fictional character, Picard wished he could order the young man to sit this one out.

Then again, unless the order were to come directly from his king, Picard doubted Faramir would listen, anyway. These were his men; he was their captain. For good or ill, he would share their fate.

Picard caught Faramir's eyes and nodded. With a signal from Faramir, the company straightened their ranks and prepared to ride. Picard took the lead, with Faramir on his left and O' Brien on his right. Once more, they rode off towards the East.

* * *

><p>Dawn. Riker squinted in the light. They were flying over a valley, surrounded almost entirely by mountains. A road through the mountains to the south led back the way they had come. To the north, a large army waited. Thousands. No, tens of thousands. All of Mordor, it seemed, had been summoned.<p>

The Nazgul flew to the north end of the valley, dropped Riker, and landed by the edge of the Orc army. Riker groaned and turned his head in time to see a man clad in black riding towards him on a black horse. At first, he assumed it was another Nazgul, but, as the man rode closer, Riker didn't feel the same presence. This was no wraith. Flesh and blood lay beneath his robes and hood.

The rider was followed by several Orcs, but they kept a safe distance. The rider dismounted and approached without fear, not shrinking even from the Nazgul. He rolled Riker over onto his back with a single kick, and Riker couldn't check a quiet groan of pain. "So _this _is the King of Gondor," the man scoffed. "Fool. It takes more to make a king than an Elvish blade. Did Gandalf truly believe that, because thou art a king, he could send thee as a spy whithersoever he wished, and thou wouldst come to no harm? Thou art arrogant fools."

Riker caught his breath. "Then we have something in common. And if it is to be my undoing, then so shall it be yours."

The man laughed, a cold, evil laugh. "Thy threats are in vain. I should kill thee now, lying in the dust like a wounded animal. But then thou wouldst never know the depth of thy folly, nor taste the fullness of thy defeat." He nodded to the Orcs and then stepped back, mounting his horse once more.

Two Orcs came forward with a long coil of rope. With one end, they tightly bound Riker's wrists, then rolled him over so that he lay face-down in the dust. Then they attached the other end of the rope to the back of the rider's saddle.

The rope tightened, and Riker was dragged towards the Orc army. The Orcs parted to allow the rider through. Riker turned his head to look just as he reached the army. A whip lashed across his back. A club struck his legs. Slowly, the rider dragged him onward through whip and club and claw, over dust and rocks and fresh horse dung.

Riker closed his eyes as he was rolled over onto his back. Whips dug into his arms and legs; the Orcs were making an effort to avoid blows to his chest, lest they kill him too quickly. Jagged rocks dug into his back as he was dragged across the valley, staining the ground red with his blood. Just as he thought the pain would send him into unconsciousness, he was rolled over again, and dragged forward on his chest.

Over and over. On they rode, until Riker was certain that every Orc in Mordor had struck him. The sun grew hotter, and Riker no longer had the strength even to cry out. His throat was parched, and his lungs ached from the dry, burning air.

Once, he dared to open his eyes. There seemed to be no end to the Orcs. Every time he thought he would faint, some new pain jolted him awake. The smell of blood and sweat and dung and the victorious cry of thousands of Orcs filled the air.

Rocks dug into his back, then his chest. His body was smeared with dung, then dragged through the dust. Whips lashed around his arms and legs, tearing through what remained of his flesh.

"Please," Riker whispered, though to whom, he did not know, nor did he know if any could hear the words or if he only imagined speaking them, his mouth moving, trying to give voice to his body's anguish. "Please, just let me die."

The horse stopped. After a moment, so did the blows. "So!" the rider said quietly, stepping towards Riker. "Thy arrogance is not eternal. What dost thou wish? A little louder, perhaps."

Riker looked up into the man's eyes, cold and pale beneath his hood. They mirrored the triumph in his voice. He had won. The King of Gondor lay helpless at his feet, begging for death. Riker closed his eyes, catching his breath, gathering his thoughts amid the chaos. No. No, he did not wish for death. But, within hours, he knew, he would have it. He was losing blood. His wounds were infected. He had been given no water, and the day would only grow hotter. Even if he could last until the Ring was destroyed, even if they returned to the _Enterprise_, he was no longer certain that even Dr. Crusher would be able to do anything for him.

One breath. Then another. He opened his eyes. The horseman was waiting for an answer. If he asked for death, Riker wondered, would the rider give it? Would he show that mercy?

"I will do it," the rider assured him, drawing his sword as if to make his point. "You have but to ask."

Riker swallowed hard, gazing up at the sky. As he watched, cloud passed over the sun. A large, grey cloud. He could see several more in the distance, off to the north.

Then he felt a drop of … but it couldn't be. Rain in Mordor? It was only a drop, but, from the looks of the clouds, it would not be the last. It was absurd. So absurd that Riker smiled, and tried to laugh, though it came out as more of a choking cough. "Thank you," Riker whispered hoarsely.

"What?" the horseman asked.

Riker's gaze flew to the man beside him. In his surprise, he had nearly forgotten the rider's offer. "No," Riker said softly, then repeated Brooke's words once more. "Onen i-estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim." This time, he understood, and translated. "I gave hope to men. I have kept no hope for myself."

"So be it, then." The rider turned and mounted. Again Riker was dragged forward, but only an occasional Orc struck him. Most followed behind as they were led down the road and farther through a pass in the mountains. Cirith Gorgor, Riker knew in the back of his mind. The Haunted Pass.

As they neared the end of the pass, they were met by more Orcs, along with several trolls, and the remaining Nazgul. They all gathered around to see the spectacle, cheering and laughing at their prisoner, bloody and filthy and helpless.

The horse came to a stop. An Orc stepped forward and cut the rope that bound Riker's wrists. The horseman dismounted and slowly approached, savoring his moment. He removed a small bottle from his cloak, uncorked it, and poured the liquid into Riker's mouth. Riker's throat burned as he swallowed, but his vision cleared, and his thoughts became less cloudy. They wanted him alive, aware of every moment of pain.

The rider nodded, and a large Orc stepped forward out of the masses, carrying a huge, heavy club. The Orc raised the club and brought it down with a sickening crack against Riker's leg. Riker cried out and instinctively tried to struggle, but pain coursed through his body, and he could do little more than shudder and twitch back and forth, trying to find a position that didn't result in agony. But there was none to be found.

Only once Riker's screams had died down did the Orc strike again, this time striking one of his arms. Wave after wave of pain coursed through Riker's body. The club struck his knee, then just above his elbow. Farther up his leg, then just above the wrist. The Orcs rolled him over onto his side, allowing the Orc to strike the side of his hip with a horrible crack, then propped him up so the Orc could strike his shoulders from above. More of the fiery liquid was poured down his throat. Again the Orc struck, and again, each blow connecting with splintering force. At last, they dropped him back into the dirt. There he lay, screaming, wailing, gasping. Waiting for one of the Orcs to strike a blow that would bring an end to the pain.

But none came. Clawed hands lifted him, bore him forward. The crowd parted. In front of them was a large, flat rock. On it lay a metal shape, almost a circle, perhaps a wheel. But the shape was not quite right – it was more oval, like an eye.

Yes, an eye. A long, metal beam stretched from the top of the eye to the bottom, forming a pupil that reminded Riker of a cat's. Four long, metal spikes stuck out from the eye itself – two from the top lid, two from the bottom. The Orcs bore Riker forward and held him in place above the beam.

An Orc lifted Riker's arm, and Riker could hardly believe it was his. The limb lay limp in the Orc's hands, broken and mangled. In places, fragments of bone broke the skin, and the whole arm was dirty and bleeding. The Orc stretched the arm out to the side, then above Riker's head, so that the tip of a spike pressed just above his elbow. Another Orc took his other arm and placed it the same way. Then his legs were stretched so that the spikes on the bottom of the eye lay beneath his thighs, a little above the knee.

Orcs held each of his limbs tightly, waiting. Riker braced himself, but was still unprepared for the surge of pain as the Orcs thrust downward, impaling him on the spikes. Farther they pressed, until Riker lay flat against the metal beam, the bloody ends of the spikes piercing through his arms and legs. Ropes bound him firmly to the eye, lest the spikes tear through his flesh completely.

Then the eye was lifted, Riker's broken limbs dangling limply off the edges. The Orcs hoisted the eye up onto four poles, little more than two meters off the ground, high enough to be seen by the crowd. A trophy.

It was exhaustion that finally forced Riker to stop screaming. His head dropped back, resting on top of the eye. Tears of pain mixed with the dirt and blood that coated his face.

More liquid was poured down his throat, keeping him conscious. Too late, Riker's clouded thoughts finally came together, and he realized why the Orcs were so intent on keeping him alive. It wasn't solely for their own sport. They planned to display their trophy to others.

Riker closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>Q watched silently as the image in the Palantir faded. Beside him, Geordi and Eowyn stood speechless, staring into the black ball. "Is all hope then lost?" Eowyn asked, her voice shaky. "If Aragorn is their prisoner, then surely Frodo could not have escaped unharmed."<p>

Data shook his head. "Actually, he did. Aragorn sacrificed himself so that Frodo would not be found."

Geordi took Eowyn's hand gently in both of his. He said nothing. What could he say? Riker lay half-dead in the midst of an army of Orcs. Wesley was alone in Mordor. Everyone else they cared about was either dead or riding to defeat at the Black Gate. And there was nothing any of them could do about it.

It was Data who at last broke the silence. "Show us Frodo."

Q passed a hand over the Palantir. A mountain came into view. A volcano. At last, they could see Wesley, stumbling upward along the slope. As they watched, he came to a road that wound around the mountain. Wesley paused for a moment to catch his breath.

As soon as he stopped, his knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed, exhausted. His clothes and skin were spattered with dirt. His hair was a mess, his face smeared with dirt and sweat. The soles of his feet were scratched and bloody.

Wesley took his water bottle from his pack and drank. Then he tucked it back inside his bag. He fingered the Ring, making sure it was still there. Last, his hand closed around the Phial of Galadriel. "A Elbereth Gilthoniel," he whispered, and his legs seemed to grow a little stronger. He got to his knees, then his feet, and stepped onto the road. Turning left, he began to follow the path up the mountain.

Geordi and Eowyn exchanged a look. There was still hope. And the end was nearer than either of them had guessed.


	38. The Land of Mordor

**Disclaimer: **Well, the story is nearing its end, and I still don't own a bit of it.

* * *

><p><em>Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,<br>Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,  
>Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,<br>One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne,  
>In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie.<br>One Ring to rule them all, one Ring to find them,  
>One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them<br>In the land of Mordor where the shadows lie._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Eight<br>****The Land of Mordor**

"We're close."

Faramir's words broke the anxious silence that had settled over the company. He pointed ahead along the path. Two towers, tall and dark, stood to the right of the road. "The Towers of the Teeth," Faramir said quietly to O'Brien. "The closer is called Carchost, the farther Norchost. They were built by the men of Gondor long ago to keep watch over the entrance to Mordor. Now they are watchtowers of the Enemy."

As they passed the first tower, the road forked. The left path continued straight past the second tower and on out of sight. The other turned to the right, between the towers. Beyond the towers lay great cliffs, the edge of the mountain range that the road had followed for days. The road lay between two of the cliffs. Some hundred meters beyond the towers lay a wall of black stone. A single gate with three archways stood in the center.

There at the fork in the road, they halted. Picard watched the gate for a moment, half-expecting armies of Orcs to come pouring out, and more than a little surprised that none had been there to meet them.

"Where are they?" Worf asked.

"The hook has been baited," Picard replied gravely. "All that remains is for us to cast the line. Faramir, Hama, Legolas, Gimli, Sam, come with me." Even as he said the names, something about it felt right. A representative of Rohan and Gondor. An Elf, a Dwarf, and a Hobbit. He, Gandalf the White, had come with all the free peoples of Middle-Earth to challenge Sauron. Together, they rode towards the Black Gate.

They rode past the towers and came to a halt halfway between the towers and the gate that now loomed high above their heads. Troi brought her horse up alongside Faramir's, Dr. Crusher beside her, and Worf beside O' Brien, so that they formed a single line before the Black Gate.

"Come forth!" Faramir cried in a loud voice. "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! For wrongfully has he made war on us and assailed our lands. The free peoples of Middle-Earth demand that he should atone for his evils and depart them forever. Come forth!"

They waited. How long, Picard did not know, but they soon grew restless, and still there was no answer. As Picard was about to turn and lead them back to the rest of the company, a loud and terrible horn blew, and the ground beneath them trembled. Then, with a great clang, the middle door of the gate opened, and a small company rode forth.

One – their captain, Picard guessed – rode forward to meet Picard. He was tall and thin, robed all in black, with a hood that hid his face. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he announced coldly, then glanced over each of them in turn. "Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me? Shire-rat, Prince of a fading Elvish kingdom, Dwarf of an insignificant mountain realm, house-servant of a dead king, and younger son of the _Steward_ of Gondor."

Picard rode a step closer. "It is unwise to underestimate your opponent, or to judge his worth solely on his place of renown. Each of my companions was hand-chosen to represent his people. _These_ are the Captains of the West."

"So!" said the horseman. "Then thou art the spokesman, old greybeard? Have we not heard of thee at whiles, and of thy wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But this time thou hast stuck out they nose too far, Master Gandalf, and thou shalt see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great. I have tokens that I was bidden to show to thee – to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare to come."

Then he signaled to one of his guards, who rode forward with a bundle of black cloth. The Mouth of Sauron drew forth a sword, careful not to touch the hilt, but only the scabbard. He held it up expectantly before them.

Picard didn't glance behind him. Only Faramir, he guessed, would know the sword upon sight, and he remained silent, along with the rest. But then the messenger drew forth a small, silver horn. O' Brien checked a gasp as he realized, and Troi, sensing his shock, gave a quiet cry. Worf let out a low growl. Dr. Crusher stifled a cry of grief, assuming that, if Riker had been taken, then Wesley, too, must be lost. Only Faramir remained silent, as still as a statue, behind Picard.

"Good, good," the Mouth of Sauron gloated. "He was dear to you, I see. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail. It has. And now he shall die, Master Gandalf, unless you accept my lord's terms.

Picard hesitated. This was not at all what he had expected. They had come looking for battle. But, now that they were here, the more time they could earn by talking, the better. "Name the terms," he said steadily, putting on his most ambassadorial face.

"These are the terms," the messenger said, then continued as if reciting a long-rehearsed speech. "The rabble of Gondor and its deluded allies shall withdraw at once beyond the Anduin, first taking oaths never again to assail Sauron the Great in arms, open or secret. All lands east of the Anduin shall be Sauron's forever, solely. West of the Anduin as far as the Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan shall be tributary to Mordor, and men there shall bear no weapons, but shall have leave to govern their own affairs. But they shall help to rebuild Isengard, which they have wantonly destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there his lieutenant shall dwell: not Saruman, but one more worthy of trust."

Picard found it a strain not to remark that this was the most ridiculous set of terms that had ever been demanded for the release of a single prisoner. They needed to keep talking as long as they could.

"_If_ we agree to your terms," he began, "what assurance do we have that Sauron will keep his word? How do we know that your prisoner is still alive? For that matter, how do we know that you even _have_ a prisoner, that you did not find these tokens discarded along the road and invent this story? Where is this prisoner? Let him be brought forth, and we will consider your demands."

Picard met the Mouth of Sauron's gaze. He had taken part in enough negotiations to accurately play the role of a squabbling delegate. They could go back and forth for hours, arguing about whether or not a prisoner even existed, or whether or not Sauron would keep his word, with neither of them making any headway.

Instead, the Mouth of Sauron nodded to the guard, who rode back through the gate. "Very well, Master Gandalf," the messenger sneered. "We shall bring forth the prisoner."

* * *

><p>Riker groaned weakly as the Orcs lifted the poles from the ground, jolting the spikes about, digging into his arms and legs. The poles were removed, and the eye turned and held aloft so that, if his legs had been able to support him, he would have been standing. As two Orcs held him there, whips delivered blows to his back, chest, and limbs, deepening his wounds. Riker cried out in pain as new blood began to flow, dripping to the ground. Orcs smeared his body with dirt and dung, preparing their trophy for display.<p>

Then the eye was lifted once more onto poles, the front two shorter this time than the back, allowing him to see in front of them as four Orcs bore him forward and through the Black Gate.

He could see first the horseman and his guards, some dozen in all. But they were all eclipsed by a white light, bright and beautiful. The light surrounded six riders, but shone the brightest around Gandalf the White. Captain Picard. Even his skin seemed to glow. Riker could, at first, barely bring himself to look. He closed his good eye, then reopened it, hardly believing what his pain-clouded senses were telling him.

The Orcs stopped only a few paces from the riders, and the poles were thrust into the ground. For once, Riker was grateful his energy was spent; what should have been a loud scream came out only as a low, hoarse moan. For a moment, his vision blurred completely, and he was sure he would lose consciousness.

Then the light shone brighter, and Riker's vision cleared as he caught Picard's gaze. His Captain's expression was smooth, unreadable, but his eyes told a different story. Riker had tried to warn him. But even Riker hadn't fully known beforehand the depth of the darkness into which he had now traveled. He had glimpsed the nightfall but had not foreseen the cloudy, starless midnight. Picard hadn't been prepared for this.

Faramir rode forward beside Picard and placed a hand on his arm. At the touch, Picard's gaze turned from Riker. For a moment, he and Faramir spoke in hushed tones, and Riker's gaze drifted to Troi. It was taking all her effort not to weep. Beside her, Dr. Crusher was trying to mask her concern for Wesley, fearing that he, too, would suffer the same fate.

On the other side of the group rode a man clad in the armor of Rohan, his helm and shield a magnificent green, both bearing the emblem of a horse. Eomer was supposed to have ridden with the company, so it took Riker a moment to even recognize O' Brien. Two eyes stared out from the helm, and Riker expected him to look away, as Hama the door-warden or even O' Brien the transporter chief might have done. But the man who gazed back at him without fear was neither. He was the Captain of Rohan's forces and their representative at the Black Gate.

Beside him rode Worf, and, meeting the Klingon's eyes, Riker at last found a little strength, a little comfort. For, beneath the appearance of rage that his expression and posture suggested, Riker knew that Worf understood. The others could accept the necessity of what had happened; Worf understood it. Victory always came with a price. The Klingons understood it. The Dwarves understood it. And only one fact was clearer in Worf's expression: Victory _would _be theirs.

It was Faramir's voice, calm and composed, that shook Riker from his thoughts. "Your master demands much in exchange for the release of one prisoner – that he might gain by bargaining what he might otherwise fight many a war to attain."

Riker's mind raced. The horseman was trying to bargain with them. But for what? Surely Faramir realized that his release would mean nothing, that he would die soon, anyway.

That was the point. The horseman was testing them. He suspected something. He knew they had been trying to stall. If they tried to continue the discussion further – or, worse, agreed to his terms – he would know this was a diversion. A distraction from something else. Because now they surely knew that they had nothing to gain. Nothing except time.

Then Faramir looked up, and Riker knew he understood. Both he and Picard had realized it. So alike they seemed now, these two captains that men would follow – that he would follow – even here, even under the shadow of the black wings.

The horseman spoke quietly, harshly. "If you refuse my master's terms, I assure you, the prisoner will die."

Picard looked up, not allowing himself to look back, even for a moment. His eyes met Riker's, but Riker's vision was growing hazy. His head dropped back, his eyes fixed on the sky to the north.

"These we will take!" A bright flash of light revealed that Picard had come closer. "These we will take, in memory of our friend. But as for your terms, we reject them utterly! We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed, still less with one of his slaves." Still brighter the light shone now, and the ground trembled, making the eye shake.

The horseman decided to fish once more. "My master offers you one last chance to consider his offer, or all of you will surely—"

"Silence!" Picard cried, his voice no longer quite his own. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth! I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm until the lightning falls!"

And lightning, it seemed, did fall. The entire sky flashed a brilliant white. Thunder rolled, loud and strong across the land of Mordor, until the ground and even the air itself trembled. Rain began to fall, sudden and heavy, as a strong northern wind swept through the mountains, urging the storm onwards.

But another sound answered. There was a great clang as the other two doors of the Black Gate opened. Riker raised his head. Gandalf – no, Captain Picard – holding Anduril and a small, silver horn, led the other riders back towards the rest of their company, waiting at the road.

Riker could hear the masses of Orcs behind him. The horseman turned and addressed him. "Soon thou shall die, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. But, first, thou shall witness something far more painful: the death of thy friends."

As the Orcs charged, the eye was lifted once more, and Riker was borne forward. Immediately between the Towers of the Teeth, the horseman halted, and the poles were lifted, and others attached to hold them in place.

But, even with this view, Riker could barely see what was happening. Rain clouded the field. Images blurred together in his mind. He could make out no individual soldiers except for Gandalf. Picard. Soon, he was aware only of the pain, of the rain falling, washing blood and filth to the ground, and of a bright, white light. A reminder that the White Rider, at least, was still standing.

* * *

><p>Rain. Wesley clenched his teeth. Of course it would be raining. Probably the first time in years that this dry, lifeless mountain had seen water. And of course it would be while he was climbing it. Q, no doubt, had made sure of that.<p>

On he climbed, the Ring clasped tightly in his hand, as if the rain might wash it from his grasp. His other hand held Sting's hilt tightly.

One step after another, he staggered on. His legs ached. His eyes longed to close. He wanted to stop – just for a moment – but, now that he was this close, a desperate need urged him to continue. Just a little longer.

Suddenly, his foot slipped on a wet stone, and he fell forward, his right hand leaving his sword-hit to catch his fall, his left still closed tightly around the Ring. As he caught his breath, he heard a desperate cry of, "Precious!" and Gollum leapt from behind a rock in front of him.

But, even wet, tired, and caught off-guard, Wesley reached for his sword. It was drawn by the time Gollum's hands closed around his neck. Wesley thrust his sword wildly behind him. Gollum gave a startled cry but held on. Wesley struck at the creature's hands, nicking his own neck in the process. Gollum squealed and released his hold.

Wesley turned, and, at last, he got a good look at Gollum, cowering in the mud, clutching his wounded hand. Pitiful he seemed now, and not at all dangerous. Thin and small and frighteningly pale, it was a wonder he'd had the strength to attack at all. A light burned in his eyes, but Gollum now lay, cringing in fear, as Wesley took a step closer, Sting in his hand.

But Wesley did not strike. Whether it was pity or arrogance or simply the desire not to take a life without great necessity, something stayed Wesley's hand, and he did not resist. Instead, he turned and, as quickly as he could, fled along the path, his body given strength by the sudden attack, enough strength to overcome his weariness and continue on.

Then, along the path, he saw a door in the side of the mountain – a dark, gaping door, almost like a mouth. He hesitated only a moment, then stepped inside. Sheathing Sting, he drew the Phial of Galadriel, but here, in the very heart of Mordor, even its light was dimmed.

He took a few cautious steps forward, and then a burst of flame lit his way, shooting up from the ground in front of him. But not from the ground, he realized, for he had come nearly to the edge of the Cracks of Doom. He took one more step, and he could see the lava beneath him, glowing a bright, deadly red. He opened his hand and took the Ring from its chain.

Heavier It seemed now. Heavy and throbbing with power, here, in the heart of Its Master's land, so close to the place where It had been forged. Such power. Power so great that the wise of Middle-Earth had seen no other way to defeat the one that wielded It but to destroy that power completely.

Wesley held It aloft in his fingers, grasping for the first time the full extent of that power. It was real, as real as the world where It had been forged. Here, It had power to create and to destroy, to build up and to tear down. To kill and—

To restore? Wesley's throat tightened. Was that truly the test? Q had told him that destroying the Ring would return them to the Enterprise. But what if _using_ It could give him the power to do so much more? If he used It, if he simply put It on his finger, would he have that power? Even as he stood there, he knew, a battle was being fought. Riker was being held prisoner. But he could change that. He could win the battle with merely a thought. He could save Riker. He could bring him back from the very jaws of death.

And why should he be the only one? If, indeed, the Ring would give him power over death, then why not Brooke, as well? Yes, he would save them all. Restore everything.

And Q. Wesley stared at the Ring, wondering if It had the power to affect Q. If he had truly given Middle-Earth the power it deserved – and Wesley knew now that he had – then why not? Celeborn. Saruman. Whatever form Q was using now. He could destroy them all. He could save his friends. Destroy his enemy. The power lay in his hands. Then – and only then – he would finish the deed, and they would all return to the _Enterprise_, completely unharmed.

Yes. Yes, he could do it. He _would_ do it. Wesley smiled as he slipped the Ring on his finger.

He could see everything. A battle raged at the Black Gate. Gandalf and his forces were surrounded. A voice – Sam's voice – cried, "The Eagles are coming!" But the Nazgul, instead of attacking their new foes, turned and raced towards Mount Doom. Towards him. Wesley laughed. They didn't stand a chance.

It all flashed before him in an instant, because, in the next, something fell upon him, shrieking, calling for its Precious. Wesley flailed wildly, but the thought of his Precious being claimed by another had given Gollum strength far beyond his pitiful appearance. For a moment, they wrestled, tumbling, each striking wildly, Gollum at an invisible enemy, Wesley flailing blindly in surprise at the creature behind him. Gollum's reaching fingers found Wesley's. There was a terrible, stabbing pain in his finger, and Gollum thrust him aside, holding in his pale, bony fingers the Ring, and, inside it, a finger.

But, in throwing Wesley aside, Gollum had pushed himself closer to the edge. As he stumbled about in glee, crying happily for his Precious, he tripped, and fell, and with a loud cry of, "Precioussss!" he was gone.

* * *

><p>The Nazgul had left. The Eagles had come. But the tide of the battle had not turned. Picard stood back-to-back with Faramir; both of their horses had been slain. Not far away, Worf was facing down a large troll, and was slowly being driven away from the rest of the battle. Troi was limping as she fought, her armor pierced by an Orc's blade. O' Brien lay motionless beneath the body of his horse; if he was still alive, he was probably safer there, Picard guessed, than most of them were now. Dr. Crusher was nowhere to be seen.<p>

Suddenly, Faramir was no longer behind him. A blow struck Picard across the back, knocking him to the ground. He rolled over to see a huge, ugly Orc standing over him, knife in hand. He brought it down, but another blade met it. "For Frodo!" Dr. Crusher cried, her blow giving Picard time to get to his feet and sever the Orc's head. Then he glanced down. Faramir lay at his feet, plucking an arrow from his side. Protected for a moment by Dr. Crusher, Picard reached down and took Faramir's hand, helping the young captain to his feet.

Faramir regained his balance in time to block one blade that came towards him, but the second made it past his defenses, striking him hard against his side, and another arrow plunged into his shoulder, the force bringing him to his knees. This time, he stayed down. Picard and Dr. Crusher moved at once to shield him, but they couldn't last forever. A sword made it past Picard's defenses and struck deep into his arm. His sword fell. He raised his staff to block the next blow.

But the next blow never came. At that moment, there was a deep rumbling, like an earthquake. For a moment, Picard thought he saw red, in the distance, beyond the Black Gate.

Then everything vanished.

* * *

><p>Middle-Earth had disappeared, but they were not on the <em>Enterprise<em>. As near as Picard could figure, they weren't anywhere at all. There was no ground, no sky; they were floating in light. He looked around. Dr. Crusher stood beside him. Worf and Troi stood together beside O' Brien, who was wounded and unconscious, but still breathing.

In a flash of light, Riker appeared, still bound to the eye, barely conscious, unaware of what was happening. Dr. Crusher rushed to Riker's side, even as Wesley appeared, kneeling in pain, clutching his left hand. Blood flowed from where his finger should have been. Picard quickly tore a piece of cloth – still shining – from the sleeve of his robe and bandaged Wesley's hand, well enough to stop the bleeding.

Data and Geordi appeared, side by side, Data's arm in a sling, which was curious, but, otherwise, both appeared to be all right. Another flash of light, and Guinan appeared, startled. Her dress was spattered with dirt and blood, but she appeared otherwise unharmed.

Last of all, Q appeared, still in the guise of Denethor, smiling with tremendous satisfaction. "Well done! Well done, all of you! The game is ended. Middle-Earth has been saved. I commend your performance, all of you, but special credit must go to our worthy Ringbearer, our White Rider, and our long-awaited King of Gondor. Bravo! Huzzah! Praise them with great praise!"

Picard strode forward, staff in hand. "Enough of this, Q! Our bargain was that you would return us to the _Enterprise_. So do it!"

"All in good time, Mithrandir," Q nodded. "There is a reason I have not yet sent you back." He turned to where Dr. Crusher was examining Riker.

Picard's tone softened. "Doctor? Will he live?"

Dr. Crusher looked up. "I'll do what I can, Captain, but I can already tell you … it won't be enough."

There was nothing Dr. Crusher could do. There was nothing any of them to do, though Wesley knelt by Riker's side, babbling incoherently about how he could have changed it. If they returned to the _Enterprise_ now, Riker would die. But was there any hope in staying?

Suddenly, Picard felt something appear on his hand. He looked down. There, on his finger, was a ring, golden and embedded with a small, flaming red ruby. Picard turned back to Q, and he understood. "Please, Q," he said. "Take us to Rivendell."

Something akin to pride flashed across Q's face for a moment. Then it was gone, and only his usual, playful grin remained. "Take yourselves there."

He snapped his fingers, and they were flying, flying away from Mordor on the wings of eagles. Picard looked back to see Mount Doom erupting in flames, Barad-dur collapsing as if struck by an earthquake, tumbling to the ground below. Orcs fled in every direction. What remained of the army Picard had led was lifted by eagles and borne away to the west. All except for one eagle, which turned and followed Picard to the north.

Picard couldn't help smiling when he saw who their extra companion was. The eagle flew up beside Picard's. "Where are we going, Mithrandir?" Faramir asked, his voice weak as he fought to remain conscious long enough to hear the answer.

"Rest, Faramir," Picard said kindly. "You're safe. We're going to Rivendell." Faramir closed his eyes, and his body went limp, as Picard added, "We're going to save your king."


	39. The Door Where it Began

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own any of it. A last fond thank you to Tolkien and Roddenberry for letting me borrow their worlds.

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirty-Nine<br>****The Door Where It Began**

Perched high in a tree on the borders of Rivendell, Q was the first to see their visitors coming. At first, they were only specks in the sky, but they quickly grew larger and larger and took the shape of birds. Q smiled, leapt lightly to the ground, and plucked a leaf from his now much longer hair. "Lord Elrond!"

Q looked up again as he ran towards the House of Elrond. The eagles were flying swiftly – much more swiftly than was actually possible. In fact, Picard and his Fellowship had been taken from the Black Gate only minutes before. Q picked up his speed and reached Elrond only a moment before the eagles landed. "Lord Elrond—"

Elrond nodded as the eagles landed beside them, as if they had known exactly where to come. "I know, Erestor; thank you," the Elf-lord said before turning his attention to their guests.

Picard slid off his eagle, a little dazed from the flight. But, as the other eagles landed beside him, his own dizziness was quickly forgotten. He turned to the Elf in front of him, who had somehow known they were coming, it seemed. "My lord Elrond." He bowed deeply. "We are in need of your aid."

"And you shall have it, my friend." Elrond called to the Elves, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. They carried Riker, Faramir, and O' Brien away, herding Wesley and Troi along, with Dr. Crusher in tow. Amid protests and complaints, Worf, Data, and Geordi, too, were led away to be tended to, leaving only Picard and Guinan with Elrond and an Elf whom Picard didn't even recognize at first.

Then the Elf smiled and stepped forward. "Come, Gandalf, let me have a look at that." He motioned to Picard's arm; blood was staining his robe a bright red. Picard held his tongue as Q bandaged his arm. It wouldn't do for Gandalf to unleash his temper upon one of Elrond's friends. Besides, he knew, Q had done them a favor. In only a few minutes, they had traveled a distance that should have taken hours, at least – if not days. Riker should have been dead long before they arrived, but, instead, Q was giving him a chance.

"Gandalf," Elrond said kindly. "I know you must be weary, but I believe you will be needed. Will you accompany me?"

Picard nodded, testing his arm; Q had done a decent job, considering he had probably never done anything of the sort before. "Of course I will." Without knowing exactly why, he motioned to Guinan to come with him, and they both followed Elrond inside.

Several Elves, assisted by Dr. Crusher, were tending to Riker. Dr. Crusher was visibly frustrated with their lack of technology and use of far older methods, but there was no denying their skill. Elrond joined them, and Picard watched in grateful fascination as the healers stopped bleeding, cleaned wounds, set bones, and carefully bandaged Riker's broken body.

"All very intriguing, to be sure." Picard turned with a start. He should have realized Q had followed him. "But what are they doing here that could not have been done elsewhere? And why did Lord Elrond insist on your presence?"

He already knew, Picard had no doubt. But the entity wanted to hear it from him, just the same. Picard turned his gaze back to his first officer, silent.

"Because his wounds go even deeper than they appear," came a soft voice from behind them. "He was imprisoned in Barad-dur, the very seat of Sauron's power, where his shadow lies the darkest."

Picard turned to see Faramir, pale and trembling, but his voice as calm as ever. Two Elves supported him, one on either side, looks of exasperation on their faces. Even with their charge in such a weakened state, they had been unable – perhaps for fear of hurting him – to restrain him.

Picard nodded. "And just as Barad-dur was a place of evil and darkness, Rivendell is a place of light and healing. And its healing power goes beyond physical wounds, as does the power of…" He stopped, finally realizing what he was saying, and looked at his hand, then at Guinan's, which bore a ring of mithril, in which was set a white stone of adamant. On Elrond's finger, too, was a ring, a ring of gold, and, set in it, a blue sapphire. Picard turned to Q. "The power of the Elven Rings."

Picard didn't need to see Q's approving smile to know that he was right. But the entity smiled, anyway. "The power of the Three was never to dominate or command or destroy, as was the power of the One. In the three Elven Rings lies the power to preserve, to restore, to heal. _That _is their power. _Your _power."

Faramir bowed, masking the pain it caused him. "Then I will take my leave, Mithrandir. I merely wished to see that my king was—" Before he could finish, he collapsed into the Elves' arms.

Picard motioned to a nearby bed. "Lay him here. He'll cause no trouble, and I will tend to him."

The Elves obeyed without question, leaving Faramir in Picard's care.

* * *

><p>Water. Pure, clear water. It washed over him. <em>Through <em>him, it seemed, cleansing not only the wounds of his body but also the burdens of his spirit. Pain, grief, fear, all washed away by Nenya, the Ring of Water.

Air. Fresh, clean air, such as he had never breathed before. Air flowed through his aching lungs, and, as he breathed in the healing air of Rivendell, his spirit seemed to breathe out the terror and the pain of his imprisonment, all blown away by Vilya, the Ring of Air.

Fire. But not the burning flames of the Eye. Rather, a fire that took its place inside of him, warming his spirit, giving him strength. Worries and cares were all caught up in the blaze, and burned away by Narya, the Ring of Fire.

Slowly, Riker opened his eyes, and there they stood: Galadriel, Elrond, and Gandalf, the keepers of the Elven Rings. Guinan. Picard. The Captain stepped forward and took Riker's hand. Riker tried hard to control a gasp of pain. Even in the House of Elrond, broken bones still hurt.

Picard took a hint and released his hand. "How do you feel, Aragorn?" he asked, as if a loud noise might be painful, as well.

Riker took a few deep breaths. "Better than I would anywhere else, I'm sure. No disrespect meant, of course, to your own land, my Lady," he addressed Guinan.

"None taken," Guinan assured him.

Probably not exactly what Galadriel would have said, but it was enough. Riker turned back to Picard. "How are the others?"

"They are quite well, my lord." Faramir stepped into view, and Riker realized the young man had been standing on his right. Some wounds, perhaps, were beyond the Elves' power to heal. "The others are waiting outside, and are anxious to see you, but you need your rest, my lord."

"Faramir," Riker said gently. "From the look of things, you are hardly one to talk. Now, as your king, I order you to open that door."

Faramir bowed, his face barely containing his smile. "Yes, my lord."

One by one, they all entered. Geordi and Data. Worf. Troi. O' Brien. Dr. Crusher. Last of all, Wesley stepped cautiously in. Looking closely, Riker wasn't altogether surprised to see that Wesley's left hand was bandaged. He lingered near the edge of the group, as if nervous or upset.

For a moment, greetings were shared, and they all expressed their delight at seeing each other alive. But, soon, Elrond firmly herded them all away – all except Wesley, who took a few cautious steps closer.

"What is it, Wesley?" Riker asked, concerned. He had never seen the boy quite so upset.

"Sir, I … I failed."

Riker had a pretty good idea what Wesley meant, but, instead, he looked around. "Funny. This doesn't look like Mordor to me. The Orcs aren't overrunning Middle-Earth. And we are alive. And the Ring is gone. This doesn't look like failure to me, Wesley."

"But, Commander Riker, I used the Ring!" He strode closer, removing his bandage. "I put It on, inside the Cracks of Doom. I thought … I thought I could change this. I thought I could save you. Bring Brooke back. Maybe even destroy Q. So I put It on. If it weren't for Gollum, and this—" He held out his hand, revealing what the bandage had hidden – the stump of his missing finger. "Sir, you said if Frodo could do it, so could I." He looked away. "I'm sorry, Sir. You were wrong."

Riker smiled. "Oh, Wesley. I only said that to keep you going. There's so much I didn't tell you. Frodo had Sam with him the whole way, to keep his hopes up, keep him going. The only reason he made it to the Mountain at all was because of Sam. And as for what happened there … Well, just let me say, Wesley, that you're a much better Frodo than you give yourself credit for. But, of course, I don't want to spoil the ending."

"So you're … you're not disappointed?"

"Wesley, how could I be disappointed? You just saved us all. Well, you and Gollum, I suppose."

Wesley finally smiled. "Thank you, Sir." He turned to go.

"You're most welcome," Riker said quietly. Then, once Wesley was gone, he added, "Frodo of the Nine Fingers."

* * *

><p>Days passed, and blended into weeks. They all lost track of the passage of time as they remained as guests in the House of Elrond. Meals were eaten, tales were told, hearts were lightened, and wounds slowly continued to heal.<p>

As soon as he was well enough, Riker took to walking the paths of Rivendell. Faramir usually accompanied him, and Riker was grateful for the company. Together, they explored hidden paths and trails of Imladris, Riker gratefully allowing Aragorn's childhood memories to eclipse his more recent ones.

During one of these walks, they found themselves near the entrance to Rivendell, where the crew of the _Enterprise _had first appeared in Middle-Earth. "This is where I met your brother," Riker said, almost without thinking.

Faramir glanced around, taking it in, not pressing the matter further. He knew Riker would continue if he wished. Eventually, he did, slowly, as if actually recalling a memory. "I had risen early in the morning to take a walk before the council. The sky was still grey, the sun only beginning to rise in the east, and there was a mist all around. As I came near here, I heard the sound of hoof beats, and as I looked down the path, I could see a rider approaching in the grey dawn. He said he was looking for the hidden land of Imladris." Riker realized he was smiling. He could almost see Brooke riding along the path, tired from a long journey but eager to arrive at her destination. "He was the last of our Fellowship to arrive for the council, but we were grateful to have him with us."

"Perhaps not as grateful as we should have been." Picard's voice startled Riker. The Captain approached, taking in the sight. "But for your brother, things might have gone quite differently, and there is more than a fair chance that none of us would be standing here now. I never had the chance to tell you properly before, Faramir, because, as you said, Boromir would not have wished us to tarry on his account, nor to linger too long in grief. But now that the danger has passed, there will be time to grieve.

"I did not know Boromir as well as I now wish, and it is no secret that we did not always agree, but your brother was a noble man. His fearless determination led us safely through Moria, and his rash courage drove us onward when we would have rather remained in an illusion of safety and peace.

"Faramir, I have spent my life believing in men, in their ability to do anything they set their minds to, given enough time and patience. Believing in their ability to overcome their own weaknesses and failings and rise to something greater. I admire their determination and passion, but when I met your brother, I suddenly found that strength of will set against my own instead of alongside it, and I was less than grateful for your brother's presence in our company.

"Now, perhaps, I see more clearly the purpose of his actions. I never had the chance to tell him, so let me say now that, though I did not see it at the time, it was truly an honor to have known him and a privilege to have shared a part of this journey with him."

Faramir smiled. "Thank you, Mithrandir." For a moment, they stood there in silence, gazing off down the path to the east. Then, together, they all turned and made their way back to the House of Elrond.

* * *

><p>That night, they were all gathered together in the Hall of Fire, long after everyone else had gone to sleep. Only Faramir lingered with the crew.<p>

Riker smiled up at Faramir from an especially comfortable couch. "You must leave for Gondor soon, my friend. Our people will wonder what has become of us, and I am in no condition to make the journey."

Faramir nodded, but Riker knew that, insightful as the young man was, he had a decent idea what Riker was really saying. He rose and bowed deeply, blocking his tears with a smile. "As you wish, my lord. Good night."

"Good night, Faramir." Riker watched Faramir leave, certain that somehow, Faramir knew that their goodnight had meant farewell. He turned to Picard. "Ready, Sir?"

Picard nodded. "Make it so, Number One."

Riker took one last look around the Hall of Fire, then turned to the Elf called Erestor who stood waiting by the doorway. "Take us home, Q."

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Well, things are starting to wrap up. This is the last chapter, aside from a short epilogue. It's been quite a journey, and I'd like to thank all of you for sharing it with me. It's been a joy to write, and it's hard to see it end, but, as someone wise once said ... "It's time."

Namarië.


	40. Epilogue: Upon the Hearth

**Disclaimer: **The next seven paragraphs are not mine.

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><p><strong>Epilogue<br>****Upon the Hearth**

Riker sat alone in the Hall of Fire, watching as the flames, specially designed not to alert the fire suppression system, slowly dwindled. It was nearly dawn. The sky was a dark grey.

Slowly, he rose, forcing his limbs to obey, one after the other. It was getting easier, and, somehow, always seemed easier here. He stoked the fire a little, and the brand around his right eye seemed to burn. It was the one scar that hadn't begun to fade. The one wound, he knew, that would never fully heal.

Riker stepped out into the grey morning and started down the path. Before long, he heard what he was waiting for – hoof beats, approaching from the other direction. He stepped to one side, and the rider pulled his horse to a halt alongside him. He was tall and proud, his eyes shining in the early morning, the same grey as the sky above. "I seek the hidden land of Imladris, known to some as Rivendell," he announced.

"Then you have found it, my friend," Riker replied. "I am Aragorn of the Dunedain of the North."

The rider dismounted and held out his hand. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, high Steward of Gondor."

Riker shook his hand firmly. "Welcome to Rivendell, Boromir of Gondor."

Watching from high in a tree, Q smiled. Then he snapped his fingers and was gone.


End file.
